Holmes for the Holidays
by V Tsuion
Summary: A short Sherlock Holmes fic for every day of December, each in response to a different prompt, for Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness! Celebrate the season with Holmes and Watson!
1. The Mystery of the Missing Mitten

**Today's prompt: A small creature sheltering in a mitten (from cjnwriter).**

* * *

"Holmes, have you seen my mitten?" Dr. John Watson called out as he scoured the flat, searching high and low for his absent winter-wear, and there were many places they could have been hiding amidst the clutter. "One of them appears to be missing."

Sherlock Holmes did not even glance up from his chemicals. He was doubled over, peering intently at a vial of clear liquid as he held a dropper over it, adding a reagent drop by drop. With his free hand, he waved Watson off and otherwise paid his companion no heed.

Finally, Watson threw up his hands and exclaimed in exasperation, "I'll never find it in this infernal mess."

He glanced out the window. The snow swirled past, to settle on the street below. People hurried to and fro, their breath curling around them like smoke. It was too cold to go without and if he did not go soon, he would be late.

At last, he declared, "You're not thinking of going anywhere, are you? Could I take yours?"

He was met by yet another dismissive wave and took it as permission.

* * *

Watson returned to the flat some hours later to find Holmes's chemistry experiment complete, for the time being. Instead, the detective had curled up in his chair and set about filling the room with the strong smell of tobacco. He gazed into the fire as though lost to its mesmerizing dance.

But as Watson stepped into the room, Holmes glanced up and fixed him with his keen grey eyes. "There you are, doctor. I was beginning to fear you had gotten lost in the blizzard and were half frozen in some distant alleyway. Come, take off your coat and warm yourself by the fire."

Watson frowned at Holmes's somewhat macabre speculation, but sloughed off his coat, returned Holmes's mittens to the mantle where he had found them, and happily took his usual place by the fire across from Holmes, to bathe in its warming glow.

Holmes leaned back as though to admire the sight of his flatmate thawing from the chill of the winter afternoon. Only when Watson appeared comfortable did Holmes remark, "I have been considering the problem of your missing mitten."

"Have you?" Watson asked with some surprise. "I didn't realize it was worth investigating. I assume I merely misplaced it." He glanced around their sitting room, at all the places a lost mitten could be hiding.

"Keeping my Boswell's hands warm is a matter of utmost importance," Holmes insisted. He glanced down at Watson's hands, raised in front of the fire to soak up the warmth.

Watson flushed a little at the compliment - or perhaps it was just from the heat.

Holmes took a long drag on his pipe before he continued, "Let us begin from the hypothesis that your mitten was merely misplaced. When did you last wear them?"

Watson hesitated.

"What of my mittens," Holmes asked with a wry smile. "When did I last wear them?"

After a moment's pause, Watson said, "Yesterday, in the afternoon, I believe, we went for that walk in the park. I think that was the last time I left the flat before today, and I was inside all morning."

"Excellent, Watson. I concur. Now, do you recall where you placed them upon our return?"

"I thought I left them with my coat, and one was there when I was looking for them earlier, but the other had gone."

Holmes nodded. "In this case, I have the advantage of having seen you put them there, and I can attest for a fact that I did not touch them. I presume you took no midnight jaunt?"

Watson shook his head.

"And I have already taken the liberty of asking Mrs. Hudson when she brought up the tea. No one else has entered this flat in the time in question. Therefore," Holmes concluded, "we can conclude that no human is responsible for the absence of your mitten."

"Then what could have happened to it?" Watson exclaimed. "It can't have wandered off on its own."

"No, I find that highly unlikely," Holmes said with some humor. "We have eliminated the impossible, now what remains?"

Watson stared blindly at the fireplace, attempting to wade through Holmes's logic. "You said no human," he remarked at last. "What do you mean?"

"Capital, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed. "That is the question exactly! If not human, then what?" He leaned forward in eager pursuit.

"An animal, then?"

Holmes urged him on.

"In here? It can only be a mouse."

"I am inclined to think so," Holmes said. "And now that we know the thief, he can lead us to his ill-gotten gains. If you were a mouse, where would you hide a mitten?"

"Where? I don't know, in my hole, I suppose."

"Let us see." Holmes hoisted himself to his feet, only to drop to his hands and knees and scurry around the room, examining the base of the wall, where it met the floor.

At last he exclaimed "Aha!"

Watson leaped up to join him. He peered over Holmes's shoulder and sure enough there was his missing mitten, stuffed into a little hole in the wall.

"Careful," Holmes cautioned as Watson reached over to pick it up.

Watson gingerly lifted the top of the mitten and tugged it out of the hole. Inside was what looked like a little bundle of cloth. Suddenly it moved and Watson pulled back his hand as though burned.

The mitten shifted and a small nose poked out, followed by a pair of mice squeaking in a way that could only be described as indignant as they scurried back into their hole. Holmes and Watson could hardly believe their eyes; for a moment they both fancied the mice were dressed like proper gentlemen in miniature.

They exchanged a glance and Holmes let out a barking laugh. "There is your mitten, doctor. And if we were to tell anyone how it was recovered, I am afraid we would both be sent to the madhouse without a second thought."

* * *

**Note****: ****With this prompt, I just had to include Basil and Dr. Dawson (from Basil of Baker Street or The Great Mouse Detective), if only as a cameo.**


	2. A Winter Wonderland

**Today's Prompt: Fir (from Wordwielder).**

* * *

It was in the depths of winter. A not insignificant matter drew Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson out of the comfort of their cozy flat to the far north of the European continent. They bundled up in their warmest coats and left the blustery London streets behind them in favor of the icy taiga. Of course, Holmes could not be content to remain indoors for the course of his investigation. He chased after clues like an eager bloodhound, hot on the scent, and Watson dutifully followed after.

They found themselves not in the barren wasteland one might imagine, but in a snowbound forest of evergreens; firs and pines and spruce. It was beautiful, in a foreboding way. Snow covered the ground in a thick pillowy blanket and weighed down the trees' spiny branches, making them look even sharper than they already were. The snow glittered in the afternoon light, the sun already low in the sky. It was pure, to all appearances untouched by any feet - human or animal - but their own. They were utterly alone. When the wind fell quiet, the only sound was the crunching of their footsteps as they waded through the snow.

Holmes paused and turned back to wait for Watson to catch up with him. They both knew Watson lacked the detective's inexhaustible energy and his bullet wound ached in the cold. But somehow, Watson found he didn't mind too badly. Holmes would say that the scene appealed to his romantic sensibilities - no doubt with a dismissive scoff - and it was essentially true. Holmes himself looked particularly dramatic, a tall figure, his dark coat starkly black against the bright snow. The untamed intensity of his surroundings highlighted his own dynamic nature; he, just one man, dared challenge this endless wilderness of snow, and Watson, for one, suspected he might best it.

As Watson drew closer he saw Holmes's grey eyes shining with the thrill of the chase, his cheeks tinged pink from the cold. The fearsome wind dusted them both snow, so Holmes glittered like all their snow-crusted surroundings.

Watson waved for Holmes to continue on, but he did not move. His eyes remained fixed on Watson, as though he were more intriguing than any fresh clue.

When Watson reached him, Holmes took Watson by the arm as though they were walking through a park in the heart of London rather than what felt like a forest on the remotest corner of the earth. Only then did they continue on, huddled together as though for warmth, though Watson could feel Holmes attempting to support him as they walked.

"It is beautiful, isn't it," Watson marveled in a hushed voice that still seemed too loud.

To his surprise, Holmes smiled - perhaps he was not so intent on his case after all. "In a rather foreboding way. I should not be surprised, but you looked like an army man, the way you were soldiering on through the icy wind, as though you could endure any hardship. It felt unfair to leave you to face the elements alone."

"It was not so much a hardship," Watson said. Holmes was watching him so intently that he dared suggest, "There are advantages to being somewhere so remote from our fellow man."

Holmes chuckled as he realized to what Watson was referring. "You are a sly devil, my dear." He glanced around them just to be certain - there were only trees and snow. "But you're correct; I suspect there is not a soul for miles aside from the two of us."

Watson smiled and reached up to brush a few stray snowflakes off of Holmes's cheek. And then they both leaned in for a kiss. Their lips met, cold and numb from the icy wind, but as they broke apart, they were both grinning uncontrollably with the exhilaration of what they had done.

"You are right, my dear Watson," Holmes said at last, "perhaps it is not so bad after all."

With that, they leaned in for another kiss.


	3. A Toast to Mr Holmes

**Today's Prompt: Someone is celebrating retirement (from Domina Temporis).**

* * *

"A toast," Inspector Lestrade proclaimed, "To our dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

All of the officers gathered around the long table raised their glasses with the scattered, "Hear!"

Holmes bowed his head in embarrassment, though Watson could see the private smile across his lips. It seemed half the Yard had come to celebrate Sherlock Holmes's retirement; officers young and old with whom Holmes had worked over the course of his long career as the world's only consulting detective.

Lestrade continued, "He's proven us all wrong more times than I can count and is right infuriating at times, but there are thousands of crimes that would still be unsolved if not for his help. I never imagined he'd retire to the countryside, but time changes us all" - Lestrade wasn't so young anymore himself. "We'll all miss you more than we can say."

The others drained their glasses with a cheer.

"Thank you," Holmes said, his cheeks flushed with pleasure. "You are much too kind."

"When did you become so modest?" Inspector Gregson piped up, earning a laugh from the others. Of everyone there, Lestrade and Gregson had known Holmes the longest, since even before he met Watson.

"How did you convince him, Doctor?" Gregson asked as they all descended upon their dinner.

Watson demurred as he always did - "I suppose we all mellow with age."

"Even Mr. Holmes," added Lestrade, still a little dubious.

Watson nodded. "Are you thinking of retiring?"

"With your energy, I presume you have some years left in you," Holmes remarked with a wry smile.

"We would have said the same of you," Lestrade pointed out.

"Are you also planning on retiring to the countryside, Doctor?" Gregson asked.

"In a few years perhaps," Watson said, "but I still have my practice."

"What will you do in the countryside, Mr. Holmes, return to your agrarian roots?"

"I find beekeeping to be a worthy pursuit," Holmes replied. "They have their own little societies that warrant study just as much as our own. You could say a beehive is a microcosm of our dear old city of London."

"Beekeeping?" Lestrade asked in disbelief.

"You haven't heard him speak about his hives?" Watson said.

Lestrade frowned. "He's usually too busy pointing out everything I may have missed."

"If you noticed everything of importance, you would have no need for my services," Holmes replied.

Gregson put in, "You can't deny that Mr. Holmes's retirement will be a real loss to the Yard if only for all the cases you will no longer be able to solve." He turned to Holmes. "Are you sure you won't still be available for consultation, for my esteemed colleague's sake?"

Holmes shook his head. "I can only hope that you have learned enough of my methods to get by without me."

* * *

Late that evening, Holmes and Watson returned to 221B Baker Street. The usual clutter of the necessities and trivialities of the life of the great detective had been packed away into trunks and suitcases, most of which had already been relocated to Holmes's new lodgings in the South Downs, leaving the flat bare. The majority of Watson's belongings had been moved to his practice over the course of months, though he still often stayed the night at Baker Street.

But their usual chairs remained by the fireplace, and there was a pair of glasses out on the sideboard, so they could make themselves comfortable and while away one last night at their old flat together.

"A toast to rest and relaxation," Watson declared. He glanced at Holmes with a mischievous smile - they both knew that was usually the last thing from Holmes's mind.

Still, Holmes dutifully raised his glass to clink with Watson's own.

As they settled back in their chairs, Watson remarked, "Are you really retiring? I can still hardly believe it."

"And yet it is so," Holmes said with half a sigh. "As I have gotten on in years, I have found myself growing tired of this wretched city. Don't get me wrong Watson, as a specialist in crime there is no better place to be, but ever since I cheated death at the hands of the dreaded Professor Moriarty, I have wondered if I may not wish to quit while I am still ahead." He gave Watson a kind smile; a reminder that it was in part for his sake that Holmes guarded his health, so that Watson would not be bereaved again.

"Perhaps you are right." More lightly, Watson asked, "Have you wrapped up the Culverton case?"

Holmes gave a dismissive wave. "It was a simple affair, not worth a place in your chronicle and certainly not as the final case of Sherlock Holmes. We will have to find your readers something better, perhaps that tale you wrote about the Mazarin Stone."

"Really Holmes," Watson protested. "There would be riots if I dared to make that little thing your final adventure. Perhaps there will be some case grand enough to draw you out of retirement."

"Perhaps," Holmes said, "If something strikes my fancy."

"Excellent! You could even write it up yourself, if I'm not there to follow your investigation."

Holmes shot Watson a sharp glance, to suggest that his enthusiasm had perhaps taken him a little too far, but his glare had no heat and his fond smile told another story.


	4. Silent Night

**Today's Prompt: ****Choose a Christmas Carol - use it as inspiration for a narrative (from Ennui Enigma).**

* * *

It was a quiet night. There were no carriages rattling down the avenues, or people shouting to their fellows in the streets. There was not even a lone traveller, hurrying through the night. The whole city seemed to sleep beneath a bright snowy veil, accompanying them in their silent vigil.

Only two men lingered outdoors, carefully concealed as they waited, watching the far window for any trace of light or movement. Their joints grew stiff and cold, their coats and hats crusted with drifting snow, and yet, they remained, their shoulders pressed together for warmth or solidarity, or merely to minimize the chances of being sighted - though there was no one about to see them. For hours they sat like statues, waiting for the slightest sign.

The ringing of the bells cut through the night. Twelve chimes echoed down the empty streets and faded back into silence.

One of the men twisted where he sat to put his mouth up to his companion's ear. "Merry Christmas, Holmes," he breathed.

Holmes glanced over at him and whispered in response, "My apologies, Watson, for keeping you out on Christmas Eve. If we do not catch him tonight, I fear we won't have another chance."

"I know," Watson said with a smile. After a pause, he remarked, "I don't believe I've ever seen London so peaceful, as though the whole city is in waiting." His blue eyes shone in the light of the scattered street lamps.

"And so I suppose they are." Holmes's tone betrayed a little discomfort at the thought.

Everything around them seemed to glow with the soft light reflected off of the snow and the thick clouds above, lending the night an almost ethereal quality.

A frown flashed across Watson's face. "There's no harm in celebrating Christmas," he said, but he didn't sound entirely convinced himself.

They had decorated their flat in the Christmas spirit, with garlands, a wreath on the door, and a tall tree covered in candles in the middle of their sitting room, but even Watson had delayed in topping it with an angel.

Holmes attempted to soothe Watson with a hand upon his arm. "In all probability, it will make no difference."

Watson shot him a look, though he appreciated the effort on his behalf. "Holmes, you know I'm not quite so rational as yourself."

"I know," Holmes said with a hint of a mischievous smile across his lips. He glanced out upon the quiet street. "And a night like this seem to have been made to remind even the most skeptical among us that perhaps there are things beyond our ken."

The snow swirled to the ground around them, dancing in the golden lamplight.

Holmes let out a soft sigh. "Maybe tonight of all nights, we may have some share of peace on Earth, and there may be good will even toward men such as ourselves."

He met Watson's eyes and gave him a hopeful smile. Watson smiled back and inched a little closer, so that he leaned more heavily into Holmes's side. Holmes rested an arm by Watson's waist to better support them both as they made themselves comfortable for the remainder of their long vigil.

Suddenly, a light flickered on in the window across the street.

"Come, Watson, the game is afoot!" Holmes whispered, already shifting onto his feet for the inevitable chase.

* * *

**Note: I had a little trouble with this one, not the least because I'm not very familiar with Christmas carols (I kept wanting to base it on A Christmas Carol, but alas it was not to be). I hope this didn't end up too similar to Day 2′s Winter Wonderland.**


	5. The Darkest Corners of Hell

**Today's Prompt: 'To the darkest corners of hell we must fly.' (from Winter Winks 221)**

* * *

"To the darkest corners of hell we must fly," declared the tall, thin man. He reclined against the bare wooden wall, his pipe between his lips.

His smaller, sturdy companion nodded, a short, sharp gesture. He was leaning heavily on his right leg; his left must have been troubling him, as it always did before their little excursions. His expression was stiff as he steeled himself for what was to come. Sadly, there was little that could be done to make him more comfortable. The two men were hidden away in what could have passed for the cramped hideout of a secret society, and that was what they were; a society of two. Their shadows danced across the walls in the flickering light of a single gas lamp.

The tall man - Vernet, he was called these days - offered his pipe to his companion, who took it with a wordless noise of thanks. He could be communicative enough when the fancy took him - they'd both had a good laugh as he worked on the play that would serve as their lure - but until their job was done, it would be difficult to get more than a word or two out of him. He had seen things - they had both seen things, but the doctor especially had seen that which no mortal should ever set eyes upon. And yet he had seen them again and again until he was the nearest thing to an expert in the incomprehensible. They were lucky he had not gone mad as so many others had.

* * *

Vernet played his part, first upon the stage and then behind it, where he greeted the many-limbed creature they called a Prince, that could not have passed for human. "Your Royal Highness" - he bowed low, but never took his eyes off the creature - "I have taken the liberty of procuring a girl for you, from a convent in Cornwall. She has never seen a man. Your touch alone, and the sight of your face, would be enough to tip her into a perfect madness, if it pleases you."

The creature indicated its approval.

"Right this way." Vernet drew him into a waiting cab and they took off into the night.

They rode like the Devil himself and did not stop until they reached Shoreditch. He let the creature lean on his arm as he led it up into the house, into the room where the doctor was waiting, his knives at the ready.

He turned away lest he be driven to madness by the sight of what lay underneath the creature's pale carapace. When it was done, he signed the scene in emerald blood - the doctor's own signature filled the room.

And then, they returned in silence to their little hideaway. He stood against the wall, smoking, to give the doctor a little privacy as he cleansed himself of their evening hunt.

It was near an hour later when he emerged. The doctor limped over to the crates against the far wall and settled himself on top of them. He was soon joined by his companion.

"I will never again be able to operate on a living human being," the doctor said with a grimace.

His friend rested a gentle hand on his shattered leg. The human warmth slowly began to soothe the lingering ache. "There are other doctors," he said lightly. "Your expertise is more gravely needed."

"I would rather it were not."

"As would I," his friend said with a smile. "One day, when our task is complete, we will retire to the countryside, me with my beehives and you to your plays."

The doctor could not help but smile a little in response. "Perhaps I will write a novel."

"There's my man," he said with some cheer. "And perhaps I will pick back up the violin."

* * *

**Notes:****It took a little puzzling to figure out an answer to the prompt that would fit such a dramatic line, but I think Neil Gaiman's A Study in Emerald fits it perfectly, and this was a joy to write.**


	6. The Silence of the Bells

**Today's Prompt: A cathedral (from Domina** Temporis).

* * *

"This is a quiet town," Holmes remarked, "for one whose cathedral is so well known for its bells."

Watson belatedly glanced away from perusing the windows of the quaint little shops on the other side of the street, to peer up at Holmes in confusion. "Bells?" he asked helpfully.

Holmes smiled. "Have you heard the cathedral bells ring even once in all the time we have been here?"

Watson had to pause a moment to think on it. At last, he was forced to shake his head. "No, but as you are often eager to point out, there is much that I do not notice."

Holmes waved it off. "You see, but you do not take the additional step in realizing its importance. It was just three o'clock and as you have heard, or rather not heard, not a chime. That's particularly odd for a town that is known for being home to a particularly beautiful old bell."

"I suppose it is," Watson said, but his voice betrayed some lingering uncertainty. "Do you think it's down for repair?"

"Let us find out for ourselves," Holmes declared, and steered Watson by the arm to the grand cathedral in the center of town.

Watson stared up at the intricate stonework, branching into little spires that reached higher and higher toward the heavens, as though it had grown like a crystal or a great oak searching for the sun.

Even he noticed that it was very busy for a cathedral in a rural town - even one that housed such a renowned bell - for a day that was not Sunday. Workers hurried in and out, clearly not there to worship or plead with the priest.

Holmes pushed open the grand doors with a fearsome shove and they stepped inside a tall chamber.

Their eyes were still adjusting to the dim light, when they were greeted by a harried middle-aged man who could only have been the priest. "I'm sorry, gentlemen," he said, already trying to usher them back out the door, "unless it is urgent, I will have to ask that you return at another time."

Holmes's gaze swept around the room, taking in every detail at his leisure. "May I ask why you are taking down the bell? For that is surely what is causing all of this commotion."

The priest frowned. Still, he answered, "You are plainly visitors from out of town, otherwise you would know that the clapper of our cherished bell has been stolen. We have had no choice but to take it down for repairs. Removing the bell from its tower is a very delicate task, which is being undertaken as we speak."

Before the priest could push them out the door Holmes said, "I am somewhat of a professional in solving peculiar little problems like yours. Perhaps I may be of assistance in locating your missing clapper."

"The sergeant himself is overseeing the search. I do not see what you could do that he cannot."

"Perhaps nothing, but as he has clearly had no luck, there is no harm to be done in getting an alternative opinion. In the course of my business, I am often consulted by the men of the Scotland Yard for my perspective on a case."

Finally, the priest relented and led them up to the top of the bell tower so that Holmes could examine the scene of the crime.

"There are a sad many men who would vandalize a house of God," the priest remarked as Holmes set about his work.

He watched in confusion as the detective scurried about the bell tower on his hands and knees, picking up dust here, examining the woodwork there.

Finally, Holmes got to his feet and brushed off his coat. "You have taken the bell down for repairs. How extensive is the damage?"

"Aside from the missing clapper, there is hardly anything wrong, but what use is a bell that cannot ring?"

Holmes smiled. "I expected as much. There is no need for me to examine the bell itself, I would merely get in the way. This is clearly not the work of a vandal. It has been done very carefully, almost artfully, I would say." Suddenly he changed track entirely - "Have you heard of a series of rather ostentatious robberies that have taken place in London of late? Lady Melrose's necklace taken from her bedroom while she was staying at Milchester Abbey, Lord Lochmaben's safe burgled, and countless others."

"What does that have to do with the missing bell clapper?" the priest demanded.

"It is a case after my own heart, if Inspector Mackenzie would permit me to be of assistance. The thieves are a pair of gentlemen, if I am not mistaken, with a taste for the extravagant bordering on the impractical. I have been following their case and wondered if they might take another trip to the countryside, though I did not expect it would take such a remarkable form. I expect it is they who are responsible for stealing the clapper of your bell."

"But why?"

"To get at the renown bell, of course. As we have seen, to remove the bell from its tower requires the careful efforts of all the men this town can muster, however, once it has been taken down for repair, it would be easy enough for a pair of thieves to whisk it away on a cart and reunite it with the stolen clapper. It was a clever thing; separating the bell from the one piece that could be removed and replaced without damaging it."

"If that is so, then where do you propose we look for the clapper?"

"We need only catch the thieves and they will lead us to their ill-gotten prize."

* * *

That night, Holmes and Watson waited in the silent cathedral. They hid in a small, bare chamber off of the grand hall, a little larger than a closet. The bell took up most of the room, and Holmes had carefully arranged Watson and himself in the shadows, to afford them the greatest chance of startling any who dared trespass. And so they sat for hours, squeezed into a tight corner in the dark. They could whisper among themselves, but little more, and that only carefully. Instead, they mostly waited, each lost in his own thoughts.

And then they heard soft footsteps padding across the hard floor outside.

Holmes quickly and silently stole to his feet. Watson followed more slowly after.

The footsteps paused.

Watson glanced over at Holmes, but Holmes gestured for him to wait, to be patient.

Their ears strained, as though trying to feel their way through the dark by sound alone. Finally, a sound. They heard the man pad closer until his hand rested on the doorknob.

Holmes shot Watson a victorious smile that seemed to say, "We have him."

Ever so slowly, the door creaked open. During the day, it would have been inaudible, but the sound cut through the quiet night, setting their already taught nerves on edge. At last, it slid open and in stepped the very picture of a burglar. He was a tall man, dressed in practical working clothes, his face covered in black cloth with holes for the eyes.

Holmes lunged and the man gave a shout.

A great struggle ensued as Holmes and Watson together tried to restrain the man. He was slight, but clearly accustomed to some hard labor and he fought keenly, ducking and swinging like a boxer in his prime. But it was two against one and neither Holmes nor Watson was a pushover.

They had pinned the thief's arms behind his back when out of nowhere they were both thrown off their feet by a sudden impact. A man had run in through the door and thrown himself at Holmes and Watson, knocking them to the ground.

"Are you alright?" he asked his companion, as the taller man helped him to his feet. His voice was high and nervous, like a proper youth.

The other man nodded, grabbed his arm, and they ran off into the night even as Holmes and Watson scrambled to their feet. They ran out after the pair of thieves, but they were too far behind, and finally Holmes stopped with a chuckle as the thieves vanished in the darkness.

"I doubt they will make another attempt," Holmes remarked.

"I hope they do," Watson said a little vincitively, rubbing at the bruises on his legs. "After this, I imagine the bell will be well guarded at all times."

* * *

No more attempts were made to steal the bell, and before Holmes and Watson returned to London, the bell's clapper mysteriously reappeared at the cathedral, for which Holmes graciously accepted the priest's gratitude.

As they stepped onto the train, Holmes remarked, "A much more pleasant excursion to the countryside than I expected."

Watson gave Holmes a look, but he would take what he could get.

They were searching for their seats when Holmes directed Watson's attention to a pair of gentlemen on the opposite end of the compartment. "Do they strike you as familiar?"

One was tall and thin with a rather sharp look about him, while his shorter companion was young and eager, with a very innocent boyish air.

"The taller gentleman is rather like yourself, with those piercing eyes, but I hope you do not take me for that _ingénu_," Watson said.

Holmes smiled. "Do you not recognize his voice?"

In the moment it took Watson to pick the young man's voice out of the crowd, he saw the taller of the two glance their way. For an instant, their eyes met and what doubt Watson may have had vanished.

"They're the thieves that tried to steal the church bell!" Watson exclaimed in a hushed voice, already making to run after them.

Holmes rested a hand on Watson's arm to detain him even as he nodded in agreement. "They are already gone" - sure enough they had slipped away while Watson had turned to Holmes - "and even if they were not, we don't have enough evidence to hold them. But rest assured, Watson, they will be caught eventually. A man like that does not merely cease his criminal activities and retire in peace."

* * *

**Note****: ****To attempt such an elaborate theft, it just had to be Raffles and his dear friend Bunny. I've been reading the Raffles stories lately, and I've found them fun, if not quite as well written as the Sherlock Holmes stories.**


	7. Holmes in the Bath

**Today's Prompt: Eureka! (from sirensbane)**

* * *

Watson stepped into the hot room as though he were instead taking a plunge into cold water. He carried himself with a paradoxical combination of daring and shyness, subtly attempting to draw attention away from his injured shoulder in such a way that inadvertently made it even more prominent, but his old battle wound would have been impossible to ignore unless he covered it entirely, and Holmes found he had some preference for Watson the way he was.

All of the gentlemen at the Turkish bath were naked hold for a tartan cloth around the waist to preserve one's modesty, and Watson was no exception. His bare torso was paler than his face and hands, that had tanned under the glare of the Afghan sun. He looked much healthier than he had when Holmes first set eyes upon him. His figure, worn to almost nothing by prolonged illness, had since filled out a little, revealing him to be a sturdy man. The knotted flesh of his shoulder seemed to have strengthened significantly. Even his face was no longer haggard from the trials he had endured, though he still carried himself with a military air of preparedness.

In sum, Holmes smiled at the sight of the man and waved Watson over to join him, so that they could luxuriate together in the hot dry air, that would no doubt do them both some good.

Watson padded across the room and carefully settled down next to Holmes, watching him warily all the while. But Holmes could see his muscles slowly relaxing in the powerful heat and at last Watson leaned back with a sigh. Holmes mirrored him, and for a while they both sat in silence, enjoying the restorative bath and each other's company.

But, of course, Holmes's mind never ceased to run and it quickly returned to his current case. He let the facts roll around his mind until at last, he could no longer keep his silence - not that he betrayed his own train of thought. "What do you make of it, Watson?"

Watson startled into awareness, clearly having been lost in his own thoughts. "Do you mean the case?"

"Precisely, doctor," Holmes declared with a wry smile. "I expect one day you will play Dupin's mind-reading trick on me."

Watson frowned, but it did not last long as his mind turned to the case at hand. "She was certain the sound came from inside the house?"

"Yes, quite certain."

"If only she lived in Baker Street, the solution would be obvious."

"Would it?"

"It could only be one of your nocturnal solos."

Holmes chuckled at the suggestion and let himself fall back once more to ponder it.

Suddenly he shot up and leaped to his feet with a shout, "Eureka! Watson, I believe you've landed on it exactly!

All eyes turned to him as his voice echoed around the hard walls of the bath. Even Watson was looking up at him in disbelief.

Holmes hastily settled back down and continued, his voice hushed, but no less eager, "I suspected her brother from the first; he showed all the signs of a restless man who has been unable to sleep, I presume on account of some unrequited feelings - he has clearly been courting, but with apparently little luck. He may have been journeying out to see her in the middle of the night, but that does not explain the peculiar sounds our client has been hearing in the house, and the lady in question making a nighttime visit is exceedingly unlikely. Therefore, we can only conclude that he is undertaking some other activity in order to channel these feelings of his when he is unable to sleep. A few promising candidates present themselves which can be tested easily enough when we emerge, refreshed from our bath."

Holmes smiled over at Watson to share in the victory of a case practically solved. However, Watson was watching him no less skeptically than before. His eyes may have even been a little wider, as though something Holmes had said surprised him.

It seemed unlikely that there was some fatal flaw in his solution that Holmes had missed, but made itself so readily apparent to Watson. Perhaps there was something that he had failed to explain, but Watson was the one who had suggested it; it was just like his playing at the violin…

A scarlet blush spread across Holmes's cheeks as he realized the implications of his own words. A restless man channeling his unresolved feelings into some nighttime pursuit. Holmes had always played the violin at all hours, but these days it was rarely a case on his mind, but rather the infinite mystery of Dr. John Watson, and he could not deny that he played with feeling.

* * *

**Note: The title and the setting in the bath are thanks to my lovely muse, who upon hearing the prompt, "Eureka!" remarked that the exclamation was supposedly first made by Archemedes when he realized, upon stepping into the bath, that the amount of water displaced was equal to the volume of his body.**


	8. A Game of Croquet

**Today's Prompt: Yarders: 1, Holmes: 0 ****(from sirensbane).**

* * *

It was a beautiful spring day. The sun was shining and a gentle breeze rustled the bright green grass. It was a perfect setting too; a little green like a plateau looking out on a sloping lawn, which eventually gave way to a naturalistic wooded garden. Perhaps, after the game, Watson wondered if he might be able to convince Holmes to join him in a little promenade around the grounds.

"Dr. Watson, it's your turn," a young officer of the Yard called out, drawing Watson's attention back to the game.

Watson answered with a word of thanks, picked up his mallet, and made his way over to the hoops where the others had gathered, already embroiled in some heated debate about whose ball had hit what.

"There you are, Watson," Holmes exclaimed before Watson had a chance to put down his ball. "I am afraid we are outnumbered, but now that you are here I believe we have a fighting chance."

"I thought we had too many to play in teams," Watson answered warily.

"Officially," Holmes said with a troublesome smile.

Watson just shook his head, set down his ball a yard from the first hoop, and knocked it into play. It bounced off another ball - an officer groaned as it knocked them both away.

"Excellent, Watson," Holmes declared, clapping him on the shoulder. "With your sacrifice, you have given me a clear shot."

"No you don't!" Inspector Lestrade cried. He had won the coin toss and had the fortune of going first. With a powerful swing he knocked his own ball and Sherlock Holmes's away from the hoops, and down the hill.

A young officer was sent running after them, and both balls were placed a yard from the edge where they had gone out of bounds.

The next officer up seemed to have learned his lesson and for a few turns play progressed normally, until it was Holmes's turn once more.

First, he crouched on the ground, so that his eyes were level with his ball, and peered over the hoop. Then, he paced from the hoop to his ball, and back again a few times, as though he were attempting to measure the distance with his stride.

"Get on with it!" a particularly bold officer shouted.

At last, Holmes returned to his ball and shot it toward the first hoop, to stop just in front of it.

The officers gathered let out a collective groan. The objective of the game then became knocking Holmes's ball sufficiently out of the way not only so it was no longer obstructing the hoop, but so that he was several turns away from have the chance to score a single point.

Only Inspector Gregson, when his turn came around, aimed for the hoop, and with no other balls around to stop him, sent it straight to, and well on the way to the second, scoring the first point of the game for the Yard.

By the end of the game, Holmes had hardly made it through half of the hoops. Watson and most of the men of the Yard, Lestrade excepted, made it most of the way to the end if not completed the course, and Gregson won handily.

"Well played," Holmes declared at the end with a laugh, shaking Gregson's hand for good measure, as the loser facing the winner.

"It was simple enough," Gregson replied, though his smug smile told another story.

"It is only fitting that you should be the victor in this at least," Holmes said, with a glint in his eyes. "Come, Watson, I hear the grounds are lovely this time of year. They have a particular strain of belladonna with beautiful flowers that can be used to make the most deadly poison."

Watson obliged, trying in vain not to look nearly as pleased as he was with this turn of events, and they set off down the hill arm in arm.

* * *

**Note: I considered having them play cricket instead, but I think croquet worked well - the flexibility works to its advantage.**


	9. A Bull at Scotland Yard

**Today's Prompt: Catastrophe! Scotland Yard's file room is in a panic, as all the cabinets and papers are being ransacked by _ (from ThatSassyCaptain).**

* * *

The great bull lowered its head, its horns leveled to charge. It pawed at the ground with its hoof, scraping the wood floor. Both Holmes and Watson knew well enough to jump out of its way before it launched itself forward on deceptively powerful legs, crashing into the bookshelf with a terrible crack. Files and loose papers rained down around it, only serving to make the creature angrier. It snorted and shook its tremendous head, knocking down even more folders with its horns.

Holmes and Watson exchanged a glance. Holmes could not help but betray his amusement with the suggestion of a smile and if they were not in immediate danger, he certainly would have burst out laughing. Watson just shook his head and focused his attention on the raging bull.

Meanwhile, the bull backed out of the bookshelf and turned around, preparing for another strike. Holmes and Watson circled in opposite directions around the long table in the center of the room, both attempting to keep what barrier they could between them and the bull.

The bull, however, seemed to pay the table no heed. It lowered its horns and readied to charge at Watson. The doctor hastily backed away, but he didn't fancy his chances.

Before the bull could charge, Holmes grabbed a large file off the nearest shelf, whistled, and hurled the volume at the bull. It bounced off the beast's side, but that was enough to draw its attention.

Holmes ran for the door. The bull launched itself after him, charging headlong into the table, which splintered and cracked under the bull's weight as it was shoved across the room.

"Come, quickly!" Holmes said with a frantic wave as the bull began to extricate itself from the table.

Watson hurried after Holmes out the door, and Holmes slammed it shut behind them.

They stepped away from the door just as they heard a terrible crash coming from inside.

"Perhaps luring it out is not the solution," Holmes admitted. "Even if we could, it would wreak havoc in the streets."

"If only we had some tranquilizer, it would be easy enough to render it unconscious," Watson said with a sigh.

Holmes's eyes lit up as though he had landed on the solution.

"What is it?" Watson asked eagerly.

"We have no tranquilizer, but there's a hospital across the river that could no doubt lend us something that would do the trick."

"Yes, that would do it!"

"Go," Holmes insisted. "I will stay to watch and see that our friend does not break down the door before you return."

"You're certain?"

Holmes nodded and pushed Watson on his way.

Watson ran as fast as his legs could carry him, down the street and across the bridge to the hospital on the far bank. He pleaded frantically with the first orderly he could find, his words no doubt garbled, sounding half mad, but after speaking to enough people he seemed to finally make himself understood and ran back to the Yard with his hard won prize, hoping only that Holmes was still safe.

"I have it!" Watson shouted.

Thankfully the door was cracked, but not breached.

"Excellent!" Holmes exclaimed.

Watson filled a syringe with tranquilizer and positioned himself by the door. He nodded when he was ready, and Holmes flung the door open. It did not take long for the bull to come charging out.

Holmes hastily stepped over to draw the bull's attention while Watson plunged the syringe into its flank.

It lowered its head as though to lunge, faltered, and collapsed where it stood.

The room it left behind was a wreckage of wood and paper.

.

"And that," Holmes concluded, "Is why there is no chance that you will find any record of Mr. Northrop's crime among the Yard's files."

Inspector Lestrade just shook his head.


	10. Dashing Through the Snow

**Today's Prompt: A one horse open sleigh (from cjnwriter).**

* * *

"Yah!" Holmes shouted with a wild snap of the reins, urging the horse on even faster across the snow.

He leaned forward in the sleigh like a jockey, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold and his eyes burning bright with the thrill of the chase. Watson, squeezed beside him, held onto Holmes with one hand and the sleigh with the other, clinging to both for dear life.

They took a sharp turn and the sleigh swung wide, up onto a bank of snow at such an angle that, for an instant, Watson could have sworn they were nearly upside down. He had not a moment to catch is breath as they rocketed down another much to narrow avenue.

People jumped out of their way as they passed, but most had some warning, as they were not the only ones careening down the street. When Watson dared open his eyes against the gusts of wind and snow, and peered ahead, he could just make out the rear of a dark sled, rather like their own, swerving to and fro as it tried to shake them off its track.

"Closer," Holmes urged beneath his breath. "Just a little closer." He snapped the reins again, pushing the poor creature, already at its limits.

And yet, somehow, with a fearsome lunge, it went faster still. Holmes gave a barking laugh to cheer it on and Watson could not but smile.

Their foe's sled loomed closer and closer until they came up beside the villain. How they did not crash, Watson could not fathom.

"Watson," Holmes said, his voice low and urgent, though he did not take his eyes off the horses, jockeying for the lead, "I dare not risk crashing our sleigh into his, so I have but one option to stop our man. Will you take the reins?"

Watson nodded.

Holmes carefully passed him the reins off to Watson, and then the doctor could only watch out of the corner of his eyes as Holmes slowly got to his feet.

"Steady," Holmes murmured.

Watson tried to keep pace with the other sleigh, but there was only so much he could do - he was not such a deft handler of horses.

And then Holmes launched himself across the gap between the sleighs and Watson could only hear the grunts and shouts of the struggle that ensued.

At last, Holmes cried out "Woah!" and Watson pulled on the reigns, and both sleighs skidded to a stop side by side.

"Excellently done!" Holmes exclaimed, leaping back into their own sleigh with an easy grace.

Watson, for his part, felt dizzied by the whole experience. His heart still palpitated in his chest. It took a hand from Holmes to help him to his feet and out of the sleigh.

"I do not believe I should like to ride in a sleigh again for some time," Watson remarked with a shake of his head.

Holmes gave him a sympathetic smile. "They are excellent for racing, aren't they?"

After the villain who had given them so much trouble had been rounded up, Holmes turned to Watson and suggested with a gesture toward the remaining sleigh, "I don't suppose I could entice you to change your mind."

"Not for another chase?" Watson asked warily.

Holmes chuckled. "I was thinking of a peaceful ride through the park, though I am certain we could find another worthy adversary if you would prefer."

"The park is fine."

Watson allowed Holmes to help him back into the sleigh, and they settled into the cozy seat. Once they were comfortable, Holmes gently nudged the horse into a steady trot, and they leaned back to watch the snow swirl lazily to the ground.

* * *

**Note: I did a little research for this one and found out that, according to the internet, the song "Jingle Bells" is actually about sleigh racing, which was, at one time, a popular pastime in New England in the winter, and I didn't see why it had to be limited to just one side of the Atlantic.**


	11. Ode to a Snowflake

**Today's Prompt: Snowflake (from ****BookRookie12).**

* * *

It was toward the end of a short day in the heart of winter. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson sat inside, warming themselves by the crackling fire after a day's exertions out in the cold. Outside the gentle falling of snow had worked itself up into a veritable blizzard, swirling past the window onto the white streets. The whole world seemed to be an endless vortex, as though there was no city out their window, merely snow in its infinite variety. The snowflakes themselves were like thousands of intricate jewels, no two the same.

"It is not so remarkable," Holmes said with a dismissive wave, breaking in on Watson's thoughts in a casual show of his deductive prowess. He smiled. "Do not look so surprised. I could see your thoughts wandering with your eyes as they turned toward the window, first marveling at the sudden blizzard, no doubt, and then you could not but think about that article which proposed that no two snowflakes are the same. However, I contend that there are many more useful things that share this property of uniqueness."

"Like what?" Watson insisted, equal parts truly skeptical and playing along with his companion.

"That no two men are the same hardly bears mention, but the fact's sheer importance is clear, not only to my work, but to all facets of life as we know it. Slightly less practical, you are aware of my treatises on the variation in dirt composition across our fair city, which would be useless bar the fact that the dirt in one location is distinct from another. Likewise, I have written on different varieties of tobacco ash, which may be vastly different between makers, and are often essential in identifying the culprit of some crime. I imagine only if there was some commonality between snowflakes that fell the same mound might their unique shapes be put to some practical use, and perhaps I ought to make a study of it to find out for certain. But still, I would rather have at my disposal mud as opposed to snowflakes for evidence in an investigation."

"You may prefer mud, but I would rather look out upon snow any day," Watson replied.

Holmes laughed. "I see your point. The sky is grey, but these snowy days of winter are much more picturesque than the dun of fall or spring. And, despite the cold, I do find it is much more pleasant tramping through the snow than mud."

"And," Watson suggested almost tentatively, with a hopeful glance at Holmes, "I would say there is something particularly pleasurable about a comfortable afternoon, spent indoors with such lovely company, while outside there is such a beautiful storm brewing."

"You ought to write poetry," Holmes exclaimed with a sharp smile and a gleam in his eyes. "But you forget, my dear Watson, that this lovely scene of yours is not only beautiful, but ephemeral. Whether it warms up in a few days or at the very least in the spring, it will all melt, and what will you have then but mud."

Watson sighed. "At least it will be nice while it lasts."

After a moment's hesitation, he reached out to Holmes. To his surprise, Holmes obliged, letting Watson take Holmes's long, elegant hand in his own, as though to warm it between his palms. If he noticed the blush that tinged Holmes's cheeks, he made no comment, and Holmes returned the favor.

Instead, Holmes remarked after a long silence that had not seemed quiet at all, "Perhaps it will."

* * *

**Note: ****I was thinking it would be nice to write a fireside scene for my next wintry prompt, and here it is.**


	12. A Crack in the Ice

**Note: ****An icy adventure (from ****Domina Temporis).**

* * *

It had been a simple case, a minor crook. For Holmes, it was nothing, certainly not worth a place in Watson's chronicle, but for the culprit it was everything; his life, his freedom. When all the evidence of his crime was laid bare before him as though Holmes had been there to see it in person, of course he bolted away like a desperate man. They should have foreseen it, but he was off like a shot before Holmes even turned to see him go.

"Come, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed and tore off into the icy evening.

Their man was not yet out of sight and they ran after him through the snow, all the way to the banks of a frozen lake. Their quarry barely hesitated before giving himself to the ice. He skidded a little as his feet landed on the smooth surface, but there was enough snow for him to gain some traction as he went. He was still moving fast enough that to try and go around would be to give up the chase altogether.

Holmes ran out onto the ice at full tilt. His arms wheeled a little as he scrambled for purchase, but his boldness won him the advantage and soon he was not far behind.

Watson gingerly stepped out after him, his hand on his old revolver in his pocket, if it came to that. He doubted he could be of much use sliding across the ice.

He was still several paces away when he heard the terrible _crack_. He could see thin branching tendrils spreading through the ice as it fractured beneath them, and then, like a deadly magic trick, the men before him vanished out of sight as the ice gave way entirely.

Gone was all of Watson's trepidation, replaced by a horrible panic. He slid with no concern for the fragile ground beneath his feet and was ready to leap headlong into the frozen water after them when he saw a hand breaking the surface. He fell to his knees on the edge and hauled the man out onto the ice. To his immeasurable belief, it was Holmes that lay collapsed on the thin ice, coughing water out of his lungs.

Watson spared only a glance over the freshly exposed water for any trace of the other man, but Watson did not see him and he could not risk looking, not with Holmes pale and shivering, drenched to the bone in the frigid air.

Somehow, Watson managed to drag Holmes off the ice without sentencing them both to death by freezing in the black water below. They shambled across the snowy ground they had traversed so quickly mere minutes before, but now it was all Watson could do to keep them moving.

At long last, they stumbled inside and Watson lay Holmes out on the ground. He was in worse condition than he had been when he emerged from the lake. His drenched clothes were now coated in a thin layer of ice thanks to the freezing wind.

With no regard for any desire Holmes may have had to wear them again, Watson cut Holmes out. Even Holmes's soaking undergarments were torn away, and replaced with a cocoon of blankets. Only then did Watson allow him to be carried up to bed.

* * *

It was some time before Holmes's eyes fluttered open once more. He had no sense of how long he lay there, staring up at the ceiling, his mind as blank as it had ever been. The air was hot and humid, but he found not unpleasantly so, even though it ought have been stifling.

Eventually, he heard the sound of careful footsteps approaching his bed, as though someone was afraid to wake him. He tried to turn toward the sound, but it was a little more effort than his body seemed ready to exert.

Still, he must have moved enough for Watson to exclaim in surprise. "Holmes! You're awake." His friend strode over to his bedside so he was just on the edge of Holmes's vision. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired," Holmes answered with something of a smile.

He saw Watson nod. "I'm sure." More quietly Watson said, brushing a stray lock off of Holmes's forehead, "You gave me quite a fright."

"I did, didn't I." Holmes's memory was foggy, but chasing the culprit out onto the frozen lake was clear enough. It was only after falling through that things got hazy, and he had no recollection as to how he had made it up to bed, though he could guess easily enough.

"Did we catch him?" Holmes asked.

Watson shook his head. "He fell through when you did. I didn't have time to go after him."

Holmes didn't press him on it. He could hear the defeat in Watson's voice - to lose a man like that was an especially terrible thing for a doctor, even if the man was a criminal.

Instead, he reached for Watson's hand. "Thank you. If not for your clear-headed action, I would have doubtless met the same fate."

"I know. I'm just relieved that I was not too late."

"I'm tired now, but under your care I'm sure I'll be back to myself soon enough," Holmes reassured him with a mischievous glint. "Now, I must hear everything that I have missed."

Watson sat down on the side of the bed and talked until Holmes drifted off to sleep.

* * *

**Note: ****I've written surprisingly few injury fics like this. It was a nice chance to do something different.**


	13. Double Feature: Into the Time Slip

**Today's Prompt: ****Sherlock Holmes stuck in a time loop (from hold dot my dot coat).**

**Note:**** I liked this prompt so much, I ended up writing two responses. The first one fits the prompt a bit better, but I've been rereading the Sherlock Holmes stories and recently read Sign of the Four and have a lot of thoughts about it, so I just had to write the second one as a bonus.**

* * *

If at First You Don't Succeed, Try, Try Again

"Go on," Holmes said with a wave. "I will be fine with my young guide."

The Swiss messenger boy gave a serious nod.

At last, Watson assented and turned to descend the winding path, back into Meiringen.

And then, Holmes waited. The roar of the fall echoed around him. The air was full of the ever shifting spray.

It was not long before a man came hurrying up the path. He was tall and thin, with a domed forehead and deeply sunken eyes. There was a simple, ascetic look about him, with rounded shoulders and a protruding face that peered out at the world.

He waved off the messenger boy and faced his opponent, his head slowly oscillating from side to side like a snake. "I see you are a man of your word," Professor Moriarty said with a grimace. "You have left me with no alternative."

Holmes took a little bow. "I have done everything in my power. But I ask that you allow me one final act."

Moriarty watched with some impatience as Holmes hastily scrawled a letter to Dr. Watson.

And then, Holmes stood to face his foe. The time for words was gone. Neither man had brought a gun. Holmes was the first to charge. He launched himself at Professor Moriarty. They slid on the slick, mossy stone, and tumbled off the ledge, into the rush of the fall.

* * *

"Wait!" Holmes cried out. "Watson, I do not believe for an instant that there is truly an Englishwoman in need of your aid. It is clearly a trap laid by Professor Moriarty to ensure that I face him alone."

"Then on no account should I go."

Holmes nodded. "We shall both lie in wait for him here."

It was not long before Professor Moriarty came hurrying up the path. His eyes widened at the sight of the two of them.

Without a moment's hesitation he charged at Holmes. It was not Holmes, but Watson that met him. They slipped on the slick stone as they struggled, and tumbled off the ledge, into the rush of the fall.

"Watson!" Holmes shouted, but to no avail.

He did not notice as a rock dislodged itself from the cliffs above and crashed down upon him.

* * *

"Go!" Holmes insisted. "Hurry!"

Watson hesitated, but at last he gave in to Holmes's urgency and turned to descend the winding path, leaving Holmes alone with the messenger boy.

Holmes did not have long to wait before Moriarty arrived.

"I see you are a man of your word," the professor said with a grimace. "You have left me with no alternative."

Again, they struggled. Holmes had the upper hand, but the ground was slick beneath their feet and again his balance faltered just long enough to go tumbling into the fall.

* * *

"Go," Holmes said, urging Watson back down the path.

After Watson departed, it was not long to wait before Moriarty arrived. Again they wrestled and again they both plummeted into the fall.

* * *

Again Holmes faced Professor Moriarty. He tried to plant his feet as solidly as he could on the slick ground, angled himself so if he fell it would be toward the cliff wall rather than the falls below. He shoved with all his might and at last, Moriarty plummeted into the spray alone.

He forgot the boulder rolling down from above.

* * *

Again he faced Professor Moriarty and again they plummeted into the fall.

* * *

Holmes faced Professor Moriarty. He planted his feet on the slick ground, angled himself against the wall, and shoved Moriarty into the fall.

Up above there was a crack in the cliff face, a small shelter that would keep him safe from the boulder. He scrambled up the wall as fast as he could, but it wasn't quite fast enough.

* * *

Again, he faced Moriarty, knocked him off the ledge, scrambled up the cliff face and wedged himself into the crack in the wall just as the boulder came tumbling down after him.

He was waiting in this narrow shelter when Watson came running back up the path. Watson froze as he saw Holmes's walking stick lying against the rock where he had left it. He tried to examine the footsteps as Holmes had taught him and came to the inevitable conclusion.

"Holmes!" Watson cried out. "Sherlock Holmes!"

But only the same half-human cry of the fall was borne back to his ears

.

Everything flickered to black and John put down his controller.

* * *

Bonus: A Second Chance

"The division seems rather unfair," Watson remarked. "You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?"

"For me," said Sherlock Holmes, "there still remains the cocaine-bottle." And he stretched his hand up for it.

Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

"Which is it today?" Watson asked, startling Holmes's attention away from the old black-letter volume which he had opened as the drug surged through his system. "Morphine or cocaine?"

"Cocaine," Holmes repeated himself with some impatience.

Watson hesitated before abruptly protesting, "Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed?"

"You have done everything in your power to extricate yourself from the matter. I would say it is no longer in your hands."

"No longer in my hands?" Watson demanded. "Whatever gave you that impression?"

Holmes waved it off, though he was truly touched by Watson's fervor. "You say that now, but a married man has other more pressing duties than to an old friend."

"My dear Holmes," Watson exclaimed, "I fear the drug has addled your brain. What talk has there been of marriage?"

"It is a cruel trick you are playing, Watson, for I know you are a man of your word and would not have lied about your engagement to the lovely Miss Morstan."

"Who?" Watson asked, now on his feet to examine Holmes properly. His concern could not have been mistaken for anything but genuine.

"I assure you, the lady is not my invention," Holmes said, smiling at the absurdity of it all. A thousand possibilities crossed his mind, each more impossible than the last.

Watson's concern showed no signs of abating.

"At ease, Doctor," Holmes said with a dismissive wave.

At last, Watson settled back in his chair, though his eyes did not leave Holmes. Holmes, for his part, found he didn't mind the attention, perplexing as it was.

He was just turning the peculiar puzzle over in his head when his thoughts were interrupted. "Aha! If I am not mistaken, that is the lady herself ascending upon the stair!"

Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson stepped inside, bearing the card of Miss Mary Morstan.

"Come to see Dr. Watson, no doubt," Holmes said with a sideways glance at the doctor, though he could not deny that she had gone about visiting her intended in a strangely formal way.

"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill."

It was impossible, and yet, there was the very evidence before him. He could only confirm, "You come on account of a letter, received this morning, inviting you to meet an unknown friend at the Lyceum this evening at seven o'clock?"

She gasped. "How? How could you know?"

"Watson, I fear I have been most unjust to you," Holmes murmured. "Could you do me the favor of reading the date off of today's paper?"

He did so and it confirmed Holmes's most irrational suspicion and then some.

"I fear I am a day off," Holmes said, again perhaps more to himself than either person in the room. He could feel Watson watching him with the fear of seeing someone go mad.

"I'm sorry," Miss Morstan said, "Have I arrived at a bad time?"

Before Watson could confirm it, Holmes silenced him with a wave and turned to the lady. "My apologies for my irregular behavior. You could not have come at a better time; your arrival has resolved a small dispute between my friend and I, and I am afraid I was in the wrong, rather more than I expected. I would not miss your case for the world, but I request that you entrust it fully in my hands."

"What do you propose?" the lady asked with the guarded air of someone who does not know what is going on, but does not trust it.

"By a rather odd coincidence, I have come by some knowledge of the case which you present and I have a good reason to believe that I know the identity of the man who sent you that mysterious letter, as well as the pearls that preceded it."

"How on Earth?"

He waved off the question. "Unfortunately, that I am unable to say. However, I find myself in an ideal position for providing the advice you seek. Allow me to contact your mysterious correspondent. I believe he will need to postpone your meeting, but that it would be to your great advantage to see him when he is available, and my friend and I would be happy to accompany you."

She hesitated, but at last she said, "Very well, if you know of the matter I suppose it is best to leave it in your hands."

"Excellent. I expect you will hear from your correspondent tomorrow if not today."

After the lady had taken her leave, Watson turned to Holmes and asked, "Are you certain you are quite alright?"

"In truth, Watson, I am half convinced I must be dreaming. However, that is a poor presumption to act upon, and so far everything seems to line up precisely." He gestured for Watson to hold his peace. "There is much that still needs to be done, and if I am correct, a man's life hangs in the balance, as well as our fair visitor's fortune. When it is done, then I will have a clean breast of it and you can send me off to the madhouse if you believe it is warranted-"

"My dear Holmes!" Watson exclaimed.

Holmes forged on with a shake of his head, "Until then, I ask that you trust in my decisions and make no hasty decisions, especially not on the matter of marriage."

"Certainly."

"Now, we must make for Pondicherry Lodge with due haste."

* * *

Only after it was all done; Jonathan Small apprehended for the attempted burglary of Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, the story of the Sign of Four revealed, and the Agra treasure divided between the Sholtos and the worthy lady, did Holmes face Watson by the fireside of their Baker Street flat.

"I owe you an apology, my dear Watson," Holmes said softly, as though he was not quite sure he wanted the words to be heard. "You have been most unfairly treated."

Watson appeared startled. "I have been concerned," he admitted, "But not mistreated."

"For some time now, I fear I have been rather trying on your patience. I saw it, but I did not observe, did not heed your distress. I did not realize how serious it was until" - Holmes hesitated - "You may think me quite mad."

"I would hope you would reconsider your use of the needle after whatever has occurred, but I fear that somehow you have been right in nearly every particular. Did you have some warning?"

"In a sense," Holmes said with a wry smile. "When we spoke the other morning, when I was so disoriented as to think you had left me for a wife, I truly recalled that you had. I recall it still. It seems as though it must have been a few days ago, though the date was the same. We were disputing over some ill chosen words of mine when Miss Morstan arrived and presented her case. We accompanied her to the Lyceum Theater at 7 o'clock, and were brought to the home of Mr. Thaddeus Sholto who told us the incredible tale of which you are now aware. With him, we went to Pondicherry lodge, only to find his brother dead, murdered by Mr. Small's peculiar friend. As I investigated the murder of Mr. Sholto, it appears you fell in love with Miss Morstan and her with you. Mr. Small dumped the treasure into the Thames, leaving you free to ask the lady for her hand, and she accepted. And so, I was left to my cocaine-bottle until it appears it had not yet occurred."

"Why, it must have been a dream!" Watson exclaimed. "And yet, you were not wrong in a single particular. I confess I do find Miss Morstan attractive, though I have been rather preoccupied with your condition."

"My apologies for losing you a bride - for it can only be on account of my altered behavior that you are not now engaged."

Watson waved it off. "She is much better off with her treasure than an old army doctor."

"And yet, I find that I do not envy her nearly as much now that treasure is all she has. I am certain she make a most eligible bride," Holmes amended with a wave, "but I assure you, Watson, you would have been most dearly missed."

"My blushes, Holmes!"

"Having deprived you of a wife, it is only fair that I do what I can to make it up to you. You have never yet recognized my merits as a housekeeper."


	14. The Perfect Present

**Today's Prompt: ****It was the most challenging Christmas shopping mission s/he had ever experienced (from ****cjnwriter).**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had solved countless cases, many beyond the power of the best official detectives in Europe, and if he chanced upon a mystery he couldn't solve, chances were that no one could solve it. He was the last court of appeals for all strange happenings all through England and the continent. He had even bested the brilliant Professor James Moriarty and made a "miraculous" return.

And yet, the purchase of a simple Christmas gift was beyond his deductive capabilities. Dr. John Watson was not so difficult a man to please. Sometimes it seemed all it took to light up his eyes was a clever deduction or a too infrequent word of praise. Sometimes Holmes would catch Watson smiling at him for seemingly no reason at all. But that was little excuse after everything he had put his dear Watson through. At the very least, Watson deserved a worthy present.

So, Holmes had gone into town on the pretense of purchasing some more tobacco, and was now meandering down the snowy streets, evaluating the shops as he passed with a critical eye. A few of Watson's favorite cigars were trivial - Holmes was already picking up some tobacco, after all. And he was always in need of more writing materials, but that hardly passed for a present.

It was not a question of what Watson needed as what he wanted. In truth, Watson never needed want for anything; Holmes's purse was always open to him, and Watson did not have such extravagant desires that there was any risk of exhausting it. A present needed to be something special, something neither Holmes nor Watson would think to purchase on an ordinary day, but that Watson desired all the same.

Watson had often spoken of retiring to the countryside, but that was still an impossibility - unless Watson wished to retire more urgently than Holmes had thought. At the very least, it was not a Christmas present. Perhaps they could take a trip out to the countryside in the coming months, but again, even if they were away over Christmas, which Holmes doubted they would be, it still did not quite count.

Holmes could not deny that it was frustrating. Everything was almost perfect. They already had a tree decorated to their hearts' delight. The whole flat was strung with garland and littered with candles - Holmes had even cleared away some of his papers to ensure they did not catch. Holmes already had plans for their dinner. It could not be Christmas without the traditional sweets, but again, that was not so much a present as a feature of the holiday.

It was Watson's first Christmas after his bereavement, perhaps he wanted to do something to honor his late wife. But that would hardly make a cheering gift. And there was nothing Holmes could do to make up for allowing Watson to think him dead during his three years of absence. It was just a present, but Watson deserved so much more.

As Holmes was picking up some writing supplies, he couldn't help but notice all of the books Watson had at one time or another expressed the desire to read. However, none of them seemed quite right for Christmas.

Perhaps Watson would like a new hat or a gilded pocket watch, but chances were they would remain unused in favor of the ones Watson already had, and a walking stick would just be in bad taste as an unpleasant reminder of their journey to Switzerland. If Watson truly wanted a hat or a watch or anything else for that matter, all he had to do was ask, and it would be his.

At last, Holmes gave it up as a bad job and swore he would try again another day. His arms were already laden with cigars, and writing supplies, and books, and sweets. However, He could not pass by a woman selling some late flowers without purchasing a few to bring home with him.


	15. Dance of the Fairies

**Today's Prompt: The inspectors have an initiation procedure (from PowerOfPens).**

* * *

The young man paced back and forth across the sitting room of 221B Baker Street as many had before him. However, this level of nervous excitement, typical for a client whose own life or reputation lay on the line, was rare for an officer of the Yard.

"Pray, sit and tell us your tale," Holmes said with those soothing tones he often applied with his more anxious clients.

Glancing desperately between Holmes and Watson, the young man finally perched upon the divan, though he appeared ready to leap back up at any moment.

"I know you are a promising young officer, recently initiated into the detective force of Scotland Yard. What would send such a level-headed young man as yourself into such a frenzy?" Holmes leaned forward in curiosity, his fingers tented before him.

The young man wrung his hands. At last he exclaimed, "It's absurd, truly absurd. You'll think me mad for just suggesting it. And yet, my superiors…" he trailed off. "We're supposed to be a detective force, investigating crimes! And yet, there is no crime, perhaps not even an incident."

"Perhaps it would be best if you started at the beginning," Holmes suggested.

"You're right." The young man took in a deep breath and let it out. "It has always been my ambition to become an inspector of the Yard; to solve mysteries and catch criminals who would otherwise evade justice. And at last, after years of work, I've made it. But I fear my first case will be my last. And it is not even a case!"

"The facts, if you please."

"That's the trouble! I don't know if there are any facts!" He collected himself once more. "The report goes this way: it was just before midnight last night that Mrs. - saw a light coming from her garden. She describes it as an ethereal light, which struck her instantly as in some way unnatural. Even as she was afraid, she felt compelled to leave her bedroom and investigate the source of the light.

"Upon going into the garden, she claims to have found it full of little fairies, twinkling with this unnatural light. At first they flitted about her, seemingly harmless. She began to dance with them and found that she could not stop until she collapsed. And she awoke this morning, collapsed in the garden."

Holmes and Watson exchanged a glance, neither entirely succeeding at stifling their laughter.

"I can make neither head nor tail of it!" the young officer exclaimed. "I would dismiss it as a dream, one of many such nonsense reports made to the Yard each day, and yet her husband attests that his wife slept that night in the garden and my superiors plainly seem to think there is something afoot. I beg of you, what am I missing?"

"I fear," Holmes said, "That you are missing the joke."

"The joke?"

"I have heard the inspectors of the Yard speaking in passing about jokes played upon new officers as a sort of initiation, but you are the first to have brought the matter to me. I suggest you mark the case as solved, inform your superiors that the fairies in question have been arrested, and consult me again when you have been assigned a real case."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!" the young man exclaimed. He shook Holmes's hand and Watson's for good measure, before running out the door a much happier man than when he arrived.

Only then did Holmes and Watson burst into laughter.

"I presume the lady in question was sleepwalking," Watson remarked.

Holmes nodded. "Yes, I imagine she dreamed it all up, but was so startled by having awoken in the garden, she reported it to the police. She is not the only one to believe in fairies, at least our young visitor knew better than that. He is rather excitable, but if he continues to heed my advice so eagerly I am certain he will have a distinguished career."


	16. In the Vatican Secret Archives

**Today's Prompt: Holmes aids the Vatican (from Ennui Enigma).**

* * *

They descended through gilded halls. The walls, interspersed with portraits and other fine paintings, were plain compared to the ceilings, covered with intricate frescoes of angels and crosses. Watson barely had time to take in it all, his neck craned toward the heavens like a pious supplicant.

"We've received a warm welcome despite our Anglican origins," Holmes remarked with a wry smile, his voice low. His eyes flitted around, examining everything and everyone as they passed, more interested in the people than the artwork.

They did not have long to admire their opulent surroundings. Watson glanced one last time up at the ceiling - it seemed to glow golden in the light streaming through the windows - and then followed the others down a narrow, musty stairwell, into the heart of the archives.

Their guide led them by lamplight through the endless stacks, lined with ancient documents, rotting away in the dark. At last, he stopped and put the lamp down on a table, as he went to retrieve an ancient tome.

"It's happened many times over the centuries," their guide explained in a hushed voice that echoed into the shadows. He carefully lay the book out on the table and opened it. "See here, this whole town vanished without a trace." He returned to the stacks and took out another tome. "And some centuries later, all of these people disappeared in the same fashion."

He drew out volume after volume until the table was piled high with them. And then, at Holmes's request, he left them in the archives to pour over the tomes themselves.

"There must be some common thread," Holmes declared.

For hours they stayed in that dark and musty library. They had no sense of the passage of time, but the slow exhaustion of the lamp. Any trifle could hold the key, the only question was which.

At last, Holmes let the book he was examining fall shut, pushed his chair away from the table and leaned back, his eyes only now gazing up at the ceiling. Watson knew better than to interrupt his thoughts; Holmes would speak in his own time.

"It could not be the work of a lone individual, as much is obvious, with so many victims at a time spread over centuries. We must then suppose an organization. There is some suggestion of a ritual, but there is no pattern. These remarkable disappearances occur approximately every hundred years, but they could not align with some natural phenomenon. Instead the time between disappearances correlates most closely with the number of people taken previously, as though some quota is being filled - some appetite being met. And then there are the corpses that were found - centuries apart - exsanguinated…" he trailed off.

"It does not do to theorize before one knows all of the facts!" Holmes hoisted himself to his feet. "Come, Watson! We must go and shine a light upon things that should perhaps be left in the dark."

* * *

**Note: I don't know much about the Vatican, and a quick wiki search didn't bring up much to work with (though the Vatican Secret Archives were in fact opened up to historians during the time Holmes and Watson were active), so I went with the only thing I could think of - the Volturi from Twilight.**


	17. The Small Agra Treasure

**Today's Prompt: ****The secret adventures of Mary Morstan (from Wordwielder).**

* * *

It was around tea time. Mrs. Mary Watson was in the sitting room, reading and sipping at a cup of tea when she heard a sharp rapping at the door. The maid went to answer it, and Mary put aside her novel and stood to greet their visitor - no doubt a patient looking for her husband, who was at the moment out on his rounds, but would return soon.

To her surprise, a young woman strode into the sitting room and took Mary's hands.

"Liza!" Mary exclaimed with a smile. "What are you doing here?"

"Won't you come away with us for the week?" Liza asked. "Will and I are visiting some friends of his in the countryside again, and I can't bear to go alone. He insisted I come, but they want nothing to do with women there. If you join us, we two can make some sport of our own and maybe you'll give me the courage to talk some sense into him. I know he means well, but he can be so daft sometimes."

"Of course! It can be just as lonely in London as the countryside, this way we'll both have some company. Let me leave a note for John and I'll pack my bags."

It was with some girlish excitement that they hurried upstairs to the bedroom, where Mary threw some dresses into a suitcase, and then they were off with but a moment's notice on what, to Mary, was an impromptu adventure.

* * *

"I really don't know what to do, Mary," Liza said as they sat side by side in a cab on their way to the station. "I'm at my wit's end! Will puts on a brave face, but I can see he just doesn't want to worry me about it. I'm afraid any day now we'll be turned out onto the street. If only I was the benefactor of some mysterious treasure, but the closest my father has gotten to buried treasure is the cellar."

"I would offer you a pearl, but I fear the Agra treasure is scattered in the Thames," Mary said with a comforting hand on her friend's arm.

"I know. And I wouldn't ask you to part with it. I could just do with a little treasure of my own." Liza let out a sigh and both women leaned back in their seats, each lost in their own thoughts.

Suddenly, Mary exclaimed, "Liza! Perhaps the Agra treasure is not entirely lost! Mr. Small dumped the chest into the Thames, but what if not all of the treasure was in the chest. We know Mr. Bartholomew Sholto had a miserly vein, like his father. Is it not conceivable that he had already hid away some of the treasure, especially if he knew his brother wanted to share it?"

"If he had hidden it away, how would you begin to know where to look?" Liza asked, barely able to conceal her excitement at the prospect.

"If his father found it fit to hide it for so long in Pondicherry Lodge, I don't see why his son would be any different."

"Oh, it would be wonderful! Just imagine it! What would you do with all those jewels? The men wouldn't miss us, you know."

"I suppose we could pay Mr. Thaddeus Sholto a visit," Mary said with a smile.

"Take us to Pondicherry Lodge," Liza instructed the cabby. "Oh, this is so exciting! Like a treasure hunt right out of a novel!"

"John has been saying he'll write up our adventure with Mr. Sherlock Holmes one day, perhaps we can give him an epilogue."

"Perfect!" Liza declared.

They chatted eagerly about the romantic prospect of treasure all the way to their destination. At last they sent the cabby with their luggage on to the station and made their way up to the doors of the grand house. In the bright light of day, it did not look like the house of tragedy Mary had visited on that fateful night, but it was still with some trepidation that she knocked upon the door.

Thaddeus Sholto's Indian servant led them inside to meet the new master of the house. There was now no doubt to whom it belonged. What had once been ill-kept and threadbare was now covered in rich curtains and tapestries, intercut with paintings and vases. The contents of Mr. Sholto's cramped oasis in the heart of London comfortably spread out to cover the large house.

Mr. Sholto himself met them in the sitting room, still as nervous as ever, repeating everything he said at least twice, if not more. "Mrs. Watson, what a pleasure. It's so good of you to come. What brings you here?"

"My friend and I were discussing that ill-fated Agra treasure and I could not but wonder if perhaps there were a few jewels that had escaped falling into the Thames after all, and we just had to know for sure," Mary explained.

"What do you mean?" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together in nervous excitement.

"Do you think it might be possible that your poor brother managed to hide some jewels away before Mr. Small took the chest?"

Mr. Sholto leaped to his feet. "That would be just like him! Oh, he must have! We must search the entire house!"

"Do you know where he might have hid them?" Mary attempted to pre-empt Mr. Sholto from tearing the house apart.

"I don't know! I don't know!"

"Wasn't the treasure found in some sort of secret attic?" Liza asked. "Or maybe he buried it on the grounds."

"No, no, no. He can't have buried it, and the attic room was searched so thoroughly after the treasure was stolen."

"Well, maybe there's some clue up there," Mary suggested. "After all, they weren't looking for a few hidden jewels."

"Maybe you're right. We must see for certain!" Mr. Sholto exclaimed and led them up into the living quarters of the house without any further ado.

Mary and Liza exchanged excited smiles as their treasure hunt began in earnest.

The room had once been a chemical laboratory, but had since been converted to a storage room.

"I can hardly bear to come in here after the terrible tragedy," Mr. Sholto explained. "I would have never thought to search, but you must be right!"

He opened the secret door to the little attic and the ladies scrambled inside. They examined the walls, the floorboards, the ceiling. Between the three of them they must have checked every inch at least twice by the time they gave up in defeat and at last descended back into the house proper.

"I could have sworn you were onto something, Mary," Liza said, as they sat in the storeroom catching their breath. "But it has been fun treasure hunting."

Mary nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. "Once the little attic was discovered, it's the first place anyone would look, isn't it?"

Liza nodded.

"That doesn't make it a very good hiding spot. Maybe he put the jewels somewhere else. He could have stowed them away in here, near where he was keeping the treasure. With the treasure there, no one would spare a thought to look anywhere else."

"It's worth a shot," Liza said and stood as she started to get her second wind.

Mr. Sholto called his servant to help them move the boxes and furniture as they combed through the room.

Suddenly, Liza exclaimed, "I found something!"

The others helped her pry open a floorboard and buried underneath was a small satchel, heavy for its size. Mr. Sholto did the honor of drawing out the contents; a small handful of priceless jewels and gold.

"It belongs to you," he exclaimed, thrusting the bag at Mary.

She shook her head. "I don't really need any jewels. John's practice does well enough."

"I couldn't in good conscience use them after all my family has cost you," he insisted.

Mary glanced between Mr. Sholto and her friend. "Liza, you should take one. After all, we wouldn't have found them if not for you."

"I couldn't!"

Mary picked a jewel from the pile and handed it to her friend. "For a rainy day. Just in case." She turned to Mr. Sholto. "I don't have a use for them, but maybe someday someone else will. Could you hold on to them for me? I wouldn't want to worry my dear John with it."

"Of course," Mr. Sholto said.

"Are you sure?" Liza asked, still staring at the little crystal in her hands. "Who knows what these jewels are worth."

"I hope you never need to find out," Mary said. "And take it as my thanks for encouraging this adventure of our own."

* * *

**Note: ****I love that Mary has a reputation for helping friends with their problems, it's a shame we don't see more of that.**


	18. Delayed Holiday Greetings

**Today's Prompt: A Christmas card arrived decades after it was written (from cjnwriter).**

* * *

"Holmes, I believe you should see this." Watson was sitting at the table in their small cottage in Sussex, eating breakfast and flipping through the mail.

Holmes peered in from the other room. "What is it?"

"A letter from Terai."

Holmes froze.

"It was postmarked over thirty years ago, sent along by your brother last week."

Holmes swept into the room and grabbed the envelope out of Watson's hands. He stared at it, holding it up to the morning light, unable to believe his eyes. Without a word, he hurried to the sitting room and fell into his usual chair by the fireplace, where he tore the envelope open. He read the letter twice, maybe three times before putting it aside and leaning back in his chair.

In that time, Watson had moved into the sitting room, a book in hand, though most of his attention was fixed upon Holmes. He knew better than to interrupt.

At last, Holmes forced himself to his feet. "A walk?" he suggested, his voice perhaps a little rough.

"Certainly."

They donned their jackets and stepped out into a beautiful spring day. Watson offered Holmes his arm as they meandered off, automatically tracing their usual path that wound through the rolling hills and took them up onto the sheer cliffs overlooking the ocean. There, in the humid breeze with a faint ocean spray in their hair, Holmes stopped, looking out over the crashing waves, as though he could see well past the horizon.

"It was a Christmas card," he remarked at last with a wry smile.

"It's only a few months late," Watson said gently.

Holmes let out a silent huff of laughter, though his expression quickly turned serious. "Victor sent it not long after he arrived in Terai - just a couple years. It seems it got lost in the Himalayan winter and only just made it to London." Holmes let out a long sigh of a breath. "I wonder how Victor is doing now."

Watson patted Holmes on the arm, at a loss for what to say. A trace of a smile flitted across Holmes's lips as he covered Watson's hand with his own.

"I wonder what you would make of him. We were very different, Victor and I, but each friendless aside from the other - in truth on account of our own vices. He was a very passionate, full-blooded fellow" - Holmes shot a wry glance at Watson. "I can better imagine him facing off against Mount Everest than quietly retiring to a life of tea planting. But he left England a defeated man, badly shaken. And yet, in his letter he apologized for having left me so suddenly." Holmes shook his head. "I may have solved the mystery, Watson, but it was too little too late. I cannot truly count it among my successes."

They stood in silence upon the bluffs a little longer, their hair and clothes whipped by the salty sea breeze.

"Will you write back to him?" Watson asked.

"Perhaps I will," Holmes said with a sad smile. "Letters travel faster these days; there is hope that he may receive it within the decade."


	19. Lost Chicken, Please Return

**Today's Prompt: A chicken (from Ennui Enigma).**

* * *

"Lost chicken, if found please return."

"What do you make of that, eh, Watson?" Holmes asked with a gleam in his eyes as Watson read the indicated advertisement in the agony column.

"I don't know, Holmes," he answered with a smile. "It's chicken scratch to me, but clearly you glean something from it."

"Come now, Watson, if I didn't know you better I would say you were chicken," Holmes teased. "Would you pay your two pence to publish a line like this in the paper if it had no meaning?"

"It seems a rather inefficient way to advertise for a lost bird."

"As there is no return address, I would say inefficient is a vast overstatement," Holmes said with a chuckle. "What does that tell us?"

"The person who paid for it wasted their money. Unless it's intended as a joke, like a rubber chicken."

"It could be a joke," Holmes acknowledged, "But I am inclined to think it is more, if only for interest's sake. You are no spring chicken; you know the ways of the world. Why would someone post such an advertisement?"

Watson hesitated. "It would make a rather cryptic message. If the recipient was expecting it, it could mean anything. I am afraid any attempt to figure it out will wind up with us running around like chickens with their heads cut off."

Holmes nodded approvingly. "As a signal, it could be uncrackable. However, I suspect you give the sender a little more credit than he is owed. When the hens come home to roost, I expect our man will find something close enough to what he advertised for in his circumspect way."

"He shouldn't count his chickens before they hatch, whatever they may be, especially if he's resorting to such a peculiar means to find them."

"This does smack of a last resort, doesn't it, Watson? Some of his birds have flown the coop and so he's forced to call out to his feathered friends to find them."

"You don't suppose there's foul play?" Watson asked.

"If it isn't chickens, it's feathers," Holmes said with a shrug. "Probably just over chicken feed anyway."

"Maybe if we rise with the birds tomorrow we'll have a chance of seeing what it's all about."

"To do that we'd have to know quite a bit more than this paper alone can tell us. It's a chicken and egg question if I've ever heard one."

Watson let out a sigh. "It's probably a problem for the birds anyway."

"You're right," Holmes said. "Still, I don't think it was all a wild goose chase."

"Certainly not, if he's looking for a chicken."


	20. A Landlady Errant

**Today's Prompt: Everyone's got their secrets- what's the hidden side of Mrs. Hudson never written? (from ThatSassyCaptain)**

* * *

"It's the second time this month," Watson remarked as he was sitting down to breakfast.

Holmes glanced up from the paper with a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement. He had already moved on to the sitting room and was curled up in his usual chair by the fireplace. After a moment of the quick scrutiny for which he was so well known, he said, "Yes, Mrs. Hudson has been traveling more frequently of late."

"Do you happen to know where she's been going?" Watson asked, with a touch of suspicion that he was the only one left out of the loop.

Holmes laughed. "Not off hand, no, but it shouldn't be difficult to deduce where our esteemed landlady goes, abandoning us to the care of her obliging neighbors. What do you make of it Watson? Clearly you've made some observations of your own."

"Well," Watson answered hesitantly, "She hasn't given much advance notice, perhaps it's some urgent family trouble. The unusual packages I've seen her carrying might be gifts."

"Excellent!" Holmes declared. "Very reasonable conclusions. The odd hours of her departure are well in line with your theory. One could even guess it to be something embarrassing or otherwise best kept quiet. However, I hope your estimation of Mrs. Hudson's character is not so poor as to think that her recent good mood would coincide with such misfortune."

"What do you make of it then?" Watson asked with a bit of a challenge in his voice.

"I would suppose a more lighthearted affair. In that light, her stealth suggests a _rendez-vous_; a secret romance perhaps, the package a gift for her suitor. It is not so unlikely, Watson. In fact, there are many smaller, more subtle points that confirm my supposition."

"Why, that's wonderful!"

"We will see what changes this gentleman brings to our little sanctum."

* * *

Mrs. Hudson soon returned and life on Baker Street continued as usual.

However, one evening, Holmes remarked, standing by the window with his back to Watson, "I fear we may be without our landlady again for a few days."

"Oh, is she visiting her suitor again?" Watson asked from his usual place by the fireplace.

"It appears so."

"Mrs. Hudson at least deserves some happiness," Watson protested.

"Have you observed her to be particularly happy today?"

"I suppose not."

"I likewise have not seen any evidence of the anticipation one might expect before such a visit. And she glanced around rather furtively upon her departure just now."

"You're sure she's going to see him?"

"She could be going nowhere else dressed as she is. I wonder…" Holmes trailed off.

"What is it?"

Holmes waved off Watson's concern. "It's probably nothing, but we ought to keep an eye on our dear landlady nonetheless."

* * *

Some time later, Watson returned home from a quick outing. Holmes was away on an investigation and would not return for several hours.

The door swung open and inside stood Mrs. Hudson, frozen as though caught red handed. For a long moment they stared at each other in stunned silence, waiting for the other to break it.

Finally, Mrs. Hudson brushed off her dress and said as though she has been doing nothing more than attempting to bring some order to the chaos of their flat, "Good afternoon, Doctor, welcome back. Well, if there's nothing you need, I best be going. There's mending and cooking to be done." With that she curtsied and took her leave.

Of course, this strange encounter left an uneasy impression on the doctor, but by the time Holmes returned he had other things to think about and without any concrete suspicions it was soon forgotten.

* * *

"Holmes, I believe you have a new client," Watson remarked.

Holmes joined him at the window and Watson pointed to a man standing outside their door.

"Perhaps," Holmes said, but he did not sound convinced. "Let us wait and see what he does."

To their surprise, Mrs. Hudson soon came to the door, but instead of waving him in, she shooed him away. He snapped at her and she snapped back, vehemently enough that he ran off in a huff.

"I wonder what he wanted," Watson said with a resigned shrug. He made to return to his chair, but Holmes detained him with a hand on his arm.

"This may be a deeper matter than it appears. I believe a word with our landlady may be in order."

Holmes called for Mrs. Hudson and she appeared, clearly still shaken from the altercation.

"I would be a poor agent of justice in deed if I allowed my own landlady to be mistreated," Holmes said.

She flushed. "You don't need to worry about me, Mr. Holmes. He hasn't done me any harm, but- Well, I didn't want to tell you until I had something more solid, but I suppose I owe you an explanation and it probably is for the best."

Holmes waved Mrs. Hudson onto the settee, and leaned forward with intense interest, his fingers steepled in front of him, as she began her tale.

"I've been seeing a gentleman for a few months now," she explained with a little reluctance. "It was he who was at the door just now. He rather took me by surprise, but in truth I should have been expecting it for some time now. You see, at first he seemed very propper and kind. Few men take an interest in the life of women, especially not a boring old hen like myself, so I couldn't but appreciate the way he listened so intently to me. He asked a lot of questions, and at first I was flattered, but it didn't take long for me to notice he was more curious about my tenants than was right, you especially, Mr. Holmes. That was when I first suspected it wasn't me he was interested in.

"I didn't dare break things off, not if he was the kind of man who may wish Mr. Holmes ill, and I thought I had been thrown into the perfect position to learn who he really was and what it was he wanted. So I started asking him a lot of questions too. He told me a lot of lies that didn't quite come together, which confirmed my suspicions that he was up to no good. But I did get some real information out of him. I saw his real name and address on some papers. I don't think he has any proper employment, but he's clearly getting a lot of money from somewhere,"

"Excellent, Mrs. Hudson! You've truly outdone yourself!" Holmes exclaimed. "I believe that will be more than enough to catch our man. Rest assured, he won't be troubling you again." Even as he spoke, there was no doubt he would succeed; his eyes gleamed with the thrill of the hunt.


	21. A Ruined Surprise

**Today's Prompt: ****The Inspectors can't do anything with Holmes popping up (from PowerOfPens).**

**Note: This serves as a prequel to Day 3: A Toast to Mr. Holmes.**

* * *

"Shh," hissed Inspector Lestrade, a warning finger to his lips. "Careful or Mr. Holmes might hear us."

Inspector Gregson glanced around. "I don't see him."

After a moment's hesitation, Lestrade pointed to an old beggar man sitting on the corner, whose sharp grey eyes had momentarily been diverted from the pair of inspectors.

"You think that's him?"

Lestrade nodded.

The man turned back around to face the inspectors and they both hastily looked away and hurriedly continued down the street.

"But he doesn't know. He can't know," Gregson protested.

Lestrade gave him a look of disbelief.

Gregson groaned. "You're right. He must at least suspect, and with his powers of disguise he could be anyone…"

"Even the walls have ears."

"I'll discreetly make the reservation," Gregson resumed in a hushed voice, "If you'll tell everyone the plan without letting him know."

"Certainly. Dr. Watson has already agreed to keep Mr. Holmes distracted and bring him over when it's time."

"Good. Then I best be going. Good luck on your investigations." Gregson doffed his hat to Lestrade and made to leave.

"And to you." Lestrade tipped his own hat toward Gregson before they both hurried off, continuing along the same road for a few awkward paces and then going their separate ways.

* * *

Gregson furtively glanced over his shoulder as he rushed down the street. He could have sworn he was being followed. There was a tall, thin, bearded man with a swooping gait that was dodging his every step. He doubled back and took a side route before he could shake the man and even then he could not be sure.

He ducked into the restaurant with a final glance and called for the owner; "I must speak with him immediately, on a private matter."

He would say not another word until he was ushered into the office of the concerned owner of the establishment. "Is something the matter, my good sir?"

"I have been tasked with making the arrangements for an event," Gregson explained gravely.

However, before he could continue, there was a knock on the door. The owner excused himself and had a quick hushed discussion with the intruder.

"My apologies," the man said as he returned. "There has been some small trouble with a new waiter, but it is of no importance."

"Not at all," said Gregson, getting to his feet. "I've just realized I have an important matter to attend to. Good day."

* * *

"Officer Jenkins, a word?" Lestrade held up a hand to detain the young officer as they passed each other in the halls of Scotland Yard.

"What is it, sir?"

Lestrade glanced over his shoulder before asking, "Will you be available-" he stopped short as none other than Sherlock Holmes came striding down the hall toward them.

"Good afternoon, Inspector, Officer," Holmes greeted them both with a wry smile.

"What was it you wanted to say, Inspector?" asked Officer Jenkins as Holmes passed.

Lestrade just shook his head. "Never you mind. I swear he must have eyes in the back of his head."

* * *

For all of the interruptions, the party did eventually come together. Holmes, Watson, Lestrade and Gregson were seated around the end of a long table, talking as the celebration wound down.

"Mr. Holmes, I must say you're a difficult man to plan a party for," declared Lestrade. "Did you really have to follow us everywhere like that?"

Holmes's eyes widened in an intimation of surprise. "I haven't followed you anywhere to my knowledge."

"Admit it," insisted Gregson, "You've been trailing us in disguise trying to figure out what's been going on. And I feel justified in saying you made it right difficult for us."

Holmes let out a sharp barking laugh. "I fear you are mistaken. Dr. Watson was kind enough to clear up the mystery for me before I had to resort to any such tactics."


	22. Noteworthy Antecedents

**Today's Prompt: Holmes visits his family (from PowerOfPens).**

* * *

He was by all appearances an elderly man - for age was easier to emulate than youth - ambling down the streets of Paris. Perhaps it was fitting that he would return to such a place when he had nowhere else to go. In truth, he had seen many places since he had left the only city he could call home, but perhaps it was fitting that he would end up here, in the place of his ancestry.

He paused beneath a towering lattice of iron, ostensibly to catch his breath. It was a recent addition to the city, built for the World's Fair. He craned his neck to see the geometric layers; metal connecting to metal all the way to the top, a hereto believed impossible thousand feet above his head. It was a herculean triumph of human industry, if it perhaps lacked some artistry in the process.

But he could not linger. He was not an ordinary tourist, and the city held other, more personal attractions. So, he meandered a little ways down the green Champ de Mars, past even rows of carefully trimmed trees in the French style - geometric prisms to compliment the tower presiding over them. It was a lovely day, a mild respite in the height of summer, and he could only think how pleasant it would be to wander through the gardens with his dear friend upon his arm.

Instead, he turned onto the city streets and continued his wanderings along the narrow avenues of Faubourg Saint-Germain, past boulangeries and cafes and distinguished old manor houses, once populated by the French nobility and still home to the ebullient life of the upper class. He shuffled by ladies in their finest dresses and proper gentlemen. He laughed to himself at the sight of a to-let sign in the window of a manor - it would be much too ostentatious a hideout now, but once it would have been just the place for a pair of gentlemen to base their operations and split the cost.

He wound his way past the grand Hotel des Invalides, where he could see veterans and recovering soldiers strolling about the grounds - it was no doubt a much more comfortable place for recuperation than the base hospital at Peshawar - and in the distance he spied the grave of Napoleon. From there, he followed along the bank of the Seine, lined with merchants of all kinds selling their wares. He stopped to buy a flower before continuing on his way.

As he crossed the river at Ile de la Cite, he passed in the shadow of the grand cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris. On the other side, he soon came upon the Place de la Bastille, where the Bastille prison once stood. Now, it was an open square crowned with a tall tower commemorating the July Revolution.

For another hour, he ambled on through the city, always heading West. Until, at last, on the outskirts of the city, he came to the gates of a small cemetery. The street outside was busy, but inside all seemed muted. He carefully shut the gate behind him and made his way between the gravestones. At last he stopped and laid down his flower upon a marker bearing the inscription, "Vidocq 18."

* * *

**Note: I took a rather liberal interpretation of "family" (since I have complicated ideas for what Holmes's family is actually like that wouldn't fit in a short). Along with some normal sight-seeing, Holmes visits the area where Poe's detective, C. Auguste Dupin, would have lived in Faubourg Saint-Germain and the supposed grave of the real criminal turned detective, Eugene Francois Vidocq.**


	23. The First Frost

**Today's Prompt: Coal and chaos (from Winter Winks 221).**

* * *

Watson woke up chilled to the bone. The previous day had been bright and relatively warm, but the temperature must have taken a sharp drop in the night. His old bullet wound ached and he tried in vain to draw any warmth out of the thin comforter. Finally, he shoved off the blankets and hastily dressed. In the early morning light he could see a delicate frost creeping in around the window panes.

Downstairs, he discovered Holmes gone and the coal scuttle empty. They hadn't thought they would need the heater for another few weeks, of course they hadn't thought to get more. So, Watson took a hurried breakfast and stepped out into the icy city in search of some coal. His breath curled around him like smoke rings and the chill wind gnawed at any exposed skin. It was a dreadful day to be out of doors, but he was far from the only one. The whole city seemed to be as alive as ever, people rushing to and fro to stay out in the cold for as little time as possible.

Watson plunged into the crowd, of the same mind as the rest. Unfortunately, they were in too great accordance. The closer he got to his destination, the busier the streets got, until he could hardly see the coal shop for all the people gathered around it. There was no line, just a mass, pushing and shoving their way to the front. From snatches of conversation, he gathered that after the sudden frost there had been a run on all the coal shops in the city. He would be lucky if he could find a single lump.

Still, the biting chill urged him on. With many apologies, he bumped his way through the crowd, jostled and pushed this way and that by the ever shifting mass of humanity around him. Most were poor, workers and worse in rags, but he was not the only gentleman desperate for a little warmth after the sudden drop in temperature. He managed to wade his way toward the front where he could hear the desperate shop's owner arguing with rich and poor alike.

His coal was long gone. A new shipment might not arrive for days.

Watson stumbled home defeated, hoping to conserve what little warmth he had left. Perhaps Holmes had better luck, but Watson was not optimistic. He arrived aching and numb. Mrs. Hudson ushered him upstairs, where Holmes took over and guided him in front of a cheery fire. Without coal, they had resorted to logs, but in front of the fire it was warm enough to bring life back into Watson's limbs and soothe his aching battle wound.

"We both returned empty handed," Holmes remarked, pressing a hot cup into Watson's hands. "We're fortunate that Mrs. Hudson has a sizable store of wood for the fire. I fear our bedrooms will be impassable until they're warmed by the sun or a fresh shipment of coal, but we should be able to make do with the sitting room."

Sure enough, Holmes had gathered a pile of blankets from the bedrooms and Mrs. Hudson soon brought up a rich stew from the kitchens that made for a warming dinner.

Holmes and Watson spend the day by the fire and that evening they settled on the settee surrounded by blankets. It was only reasonable for them to lie close together to preserve their warmth, pressed even closer on the narrow settee. Holmes made for a clumsy mass of sharp angles, his tall frame condensed to fit, but somehow they managed to fit intertwined together.


	24. Double Feature: Christmas Eve

**Today's Prompt: Hark (from Wordwielder).**

**Note: ****I was almost done writing the bonus response when I realized it would be the perfect opportunity to do a take on A Christmas Carol. I've never done on before, so I had to make it a double feature (even though it's running a little late).**

* * *

A Christmas Carol

"I don't see why you insist on imposing your Christmas spirit on me when your fiancée would be more than happy to share it," Holmes snapped.

"Holmes," Watson attempted to reproach him, but to no avail.

At last, he gave up and made for the door, leaving Holmes alone by the fire. The door slammed shut behind him. Holmes reached up for the bottle on the mantle and plunged the needled into his arm. He let out a sigh of relief as the drug overcame his rattled nerves, and he fell into a stupor.

Outside, the winter wind howled raged against the shutters. The fire guttered in the grate.

"Holmes! Sherlock!" a familiar voice cried in his ear.

His eyes flickered open. "Victor?"

He looked as pale and worn as he had when he came to Holmes after his father's death, as he had looked before leaving for Terai. His eyes were wide and pleading, but the passionate light they had once held was gone, extinguished without a spark hope.

"It is so cold here, alone," said Victor Trevor, his voice but a hoarse whisper.

Holmes could hardly meet his eyes. "I'm sorry. I failed you."

A ghostly hand reached out to lift Holmes's chin, sending a shiver down his spine. "You failed once, but you need not fail again. You need not sentence yourself to solitude."

"What can I do?" Holmes demanded. "He's already left me for a wife! He's too much a gentleman, he wouldn't break off an engagement even if he had a reason to."

"He will not be so far away. There is a chance, a hope that you may keep him in your life as I could not stay. You will be haunted by Three Spirits, with their aid you may be able to walk a different path. Expect the first when the bell tolls one…" As Victor's voice faded, so did he.

"Victor!" Holmes cried out. He leapt to his feet, an arm out as though to grab him, but his old friend was gone as though he had never been.

The clock tolled twelve.

Holmes was alone in the sitting room, by the glowing embers of a dying fire. Outside, it had turned dark. Snow swirled past the window.

He lapsed back into his chair and fell into a brown study. The minutes passed slowly; fifteen minutes, then half an hour, and finally a quarter 'till.

In the distance he heard the clock toll one.

Just as it sounded in his ears, a bright white light flashed outside the window, setting the whole room aglow. And out of that light came an ever shifting spirit, small like a child and with a youthful face, but with a long white mane of hair as though grizzled by age. Its body was ever-changing, flickering in and out of shadow.

"Hark! I am the ghost of Christmas Past," it proclaimed. "Rise! And walk with me!"

Holmes took the spirit's hand to follow it out into the open air, over the rooftops of the sleeping city. But as he stepped into the bright light he found himself back in the same sitting room he had left behind.

It was a bright and cheery winter day. A fire crackled in the hearth. Beside the fire sat Holmes and Watson in their usual places. The flat was not decorated for the holiday, but the tell-tale remains of Christmas dinner were still laid out on the table. It must have been their first year together at Baker Street. They were just smoking, each apparently occupied in their own thoughts, but ever so often they would glance over at the other, curious and hopeful of what the new year would bring.

As the years passed, the decorations became more extravagant, with garlands and lights. Watson was soon strong enough to bring in a Christmas tree that they covered in candles. For a little while their flat glowed, if only in the reflected light of Watson's quiet smile.

And then they got busier and Holmes grew preoccupied. With all the cases, there was little time for frivolities and he found it was easy to let them fall by the wayside. The previous year, Holmes had suddenly been called abroad, and so Watson was left to spend the holiday at Baker Street alone. He sat gloomily by the fire, his dinner barely picked at. Holmes tried to reach out to him, but Watson made no response, his eyes did not even flicker at the sudden movement, as though Holmes was not there at all.

It all faded away until Holmes found himself back in his own chair by the dying fire, where he collapsed into a deep sleep.

However, it did not last long. He was startled into awareness as the bell tolled once more.

His eyes blinked against the bright glow of what seemed like a thousand candles. He was in the same sitting room, but it had been transformed, decorated more than he or Watson had ever bothered, with garlands, mistletoe, ivy, and flowers, and all full of light. The table bowed under a rich Christmas dinner that spilled out onto the floor.

"Come and know me better, man!" exclaimed the large spirit with long fiery hair, dressed in a voluminous green robe that parted over his strong torso. He was perched on a feast of a throne. "Hark! I am the Ghost of Christmas Present! Come!"

He led Holmes out onto the snowy street. It was a bright, cloudless day. No one went about their business, but still the avenues were busy with children playing, men and women stopping and chatting, all serenaded by carolers. Holmes watched a young couple pass with a wary eye.

But they did not stop there. The spirit guided him out to the home of Mrs. Cecil Forrester, where Miss Morstan lived as governess for a little longer. Inside it was bright and cheery. The table was set for Christmas dinner, crowded with ladies and gentlemen, Miss Morstan and his own Dr. Watson among them. Holmes made for Watson without a second thought.

"Thank you for inviting me on such late notice," Watson was saying to the lady.

"Certainly," she said with a smile. Then she hesitated. "But what will Mr. Holmes be doing for Christmas?"

Watson let out a sigh. "I don't know what's gotten into him lately. He was never one for holidays, but he has been even more inhuman than ever in recent years. I'm worried for him, of course, but I daren't show my concern."

The lady patted him gently on the arm. "He's fortunate to have such a friend as you, even if he doesn't realize it. But there's no reason to let him ruin your Christmas."

"You're right," Watson said with a sad smile.

Holmes knew better than to call out to him. He just turned away and followed the spirit, now grey with age, back to Baker Street, where he collapsed into his chair.

Holmes tossed and turned in fitful sleep. As the bell tolled for the last time, the inhuman cry of a great waterfall seemed to sound in his ears, as an ominous portent.

He must have eventually fallen into a deeper sleep, for the next thing he knew, he heard a familiar voice calling to him. "Holmes. Holmes!"

His eyes flickered open to see the light of day streaming in through the window, and illuminated by that light was Dr. John Watson, bent over him, a damp cloth in hand.

"Watson!" Holmes exclaimed in surprise. "What day is it?"

"Christmas day," Watson answered with a little concern and a little depreciation. "How are you feeling? You've been insensible all night."

"I'm fine," Holmes insisted, brushing aside Watson's hand, but gently. "I'm sorry, my dear Watson, I fear I have been most unfair to you."

"It's alright," Watson began.

But Holmes stopped him short. "No, it isn't. Have you already had Christmas dinner with Miss Morstan or could I tempt you with a goose courtesy of Mrs. Hudson?"

"I haven't left, I couldn't." Watson sounded a little insulted by the suggestion.

"You would have been right to leave, but I'm grateful to have your company."

"Are you certain you're alright?" Watson insisted.

"Quite alright, my dear fellow. Now, call for Mrs. Hudson to bring up our dinner - it is not too late for Christmas after all."

* * *

Bonus: Hark the Angels

It began in the night. It started as a low whine that startled Watson awake. He slipped out of bed as it slowly rose to a resonant cry, like a wordless inhuman voice. It was hauntingly beautiful, almost like one of Holmes's improvisations upon the violin, but with less of a melody. He stood transfixed as the sound slowly faded into silence.

The noise of someone moving around downstairs startled Watson into awareness. He rushed down to find Holmes standing in the sitting room in his nightgown, far from his usual orderly appearance.

"Watson, I presume that was not your voice just now?" Holmes asked wryly, but Watson could detect a touch of concern.

"No, not mine."

"It was not mine, nor one of my nocturnal solos upon the violin," said Holmes, glancing around as though he could locate the source of the noise if only he searched for it.

"Do you know what could have made it?"

"I have a few theories," Holmes answered with a dismissive wave of his hand, but he did not elaborate.

Watson knew better than to press. Instead, he watched Holmes standing in the middle of the room. He could see his mind working behind those keen grey eyes.

He was about to make some inconsequential remark when it began again. Holmes immediately perked up, his eyes closed and head tilted to better pinpoint the sound. Watson could only stand and stare, overcome by the ethereal ring. It could have been one voice or many. One moment it seemed perfectly human and the next entirely alien.

"It is rather fanciful," remarked Holmes with a knowing smile after it had faded to silence once more.

Watson nodded. "I know it's absurd, but it being Christmas Eve, I can only imagine it to be a chorus of angels."

Holmes let out a barking laugh. "Or perhaps it is the wail of the ghost of Christmas past. However, I expect the answer is something a little more solid." He strode over to the wall and gave it a couple of knocks. "I believe it is the pipes that are to blame."


	25. A Dangerous Disguise

**Today's Prompt: "How will we find him? He could be anyone." "I'll know him. The moment I see him." (from hold dot my dot coat)**

* * *

Watson sat in front of the waning fire. The hours drew on and still not a sign. He had tried reading, but it did little to hold his attention against his building fears, and at last he gave up and put the book aside.

He must have dozed sometime in the night, because he awoke to the early morning light piercing his eyes as the sun slowly rose above the horizon. He frantically glanced around the sitting room in the hope that Holmes had returned while he slept and merely snuck into bed, but there was no trace of him. Holmes's bedroom was empty and the bed had not been touched. Another day gone, and Holmes was nowhere to be found.

Holmes would not be pleased at the interference, but Watson could wait no longer. He sent a note to Inspector Lestrade, who arrived before lunch.

"Are you certain something's gone wrong. It's not so unusual for Holmes to be out investigating like this for days on end," Lestrade said.

"He didn't expect to be so long; he wouldn't have suggested I wait up for him if he did. And he said there would be danger."

"If he is in danger, how will we find him? He could be anyone in those disguises of his."

Watson had not lived with Holmes for so many years without learning a thing or two himself. "I'll know him the moment I see him."

They made their way down to the docks were Holmes had said he'd be working. Most of the ships were already out, but there were still many more being loaded and repaired. Watson's eyes wandered from face to face, searching for the familiar features behind beards and moustaches and wild manes of hair. In turn they all warily watched Watson and Lestrade, clearly outsiders among the hard seafaring folk. Plenty were tall enough, a few tall and thin and in one or two Watson glimpsed a familiar aquiline turn of the jaw or sharp grey eyes, but none were the man he knew so well.

They could hardly search every warehouse or ship to find Holmes. What was usually a bit of showmanship - not revealing his line of thought until the end - seemed dangerous now that he was lost who knows where with only his wits to get him out.

"He could be in a hospital," Lestrade suggested a little reluctantly.

"Perhaps," Watson said, but he could only hope Holmes had gotten that far if he were in such a state as to warrant it.

Still, they trudged on along the pier. Watson examined every boathand for those familiar features. One too muscular in ways even Holmes could not affect, one too short without stooping over, another clean shaven without a whisker to hide his round face. There was a hand overlooking the deck of the next boat, tall and thin enough, with a bushy beard that could easily have been a disguise, and sharp piercing grey eyes that met Watson's own for just an instant too long.

"I've got him!" Watson exclaimed, his voice low.

"Where?" demanded Lestrade, glancing about.

Watson jerked his head toward the boat, but he didn't dare cause a scene and ruin Holmes's plan. On a sudden burst of inspiration he called out, "Sir, is this vessel going out to sea today?"

"No, sir," Holmes answered in a low rough voice that was far from his own, "We're waiting for a few more hands to help get us out."

Watson's heart leaped in his chest at the clear message in his words. Still, he managed to get out, "Thank you, good sir."

Meanwhile, he could hear a harsh voice shouting from deeper in the ship. "What are you chatting on about? Get back to work!"

Watson led the way across the street where they could loiter a little less conspicuously. "He's in danger and needs our help to get him out," he whispered.

"You're sure? I don't want to be the man who ruined one of Sherlock Holmes's plans," insisted Lestrade.

"If not, then I'll take the blame."

"Then just follow my lead." With that, Lestrade strode up to the ship and called out, "This is an inspection! Let us up!"

A rough looking man soon blocked their way onto the gangplank. "What the hell do you want?"

"We're here to inspect your ship. Let us on or I have the authority to place you under arrest for impeding an inspection."

"The two of you'll get lost if you know what's good for you," he began.

However, another man emerged from below. "We'd better do as they say."

For a moment it looked like the first man was going to shout, but eventually he relented and took them on a brief tour of the ship. There were clearly places they avoided, but Lestrade made no objections and by the time they returned to the deck, Holmes was gone. Watson could only hope he had escaped and had not been pulled below while they were there.

Lestrade thanked the sailors and they began on their way down the street. Watson tried not to be too obvious as he glanced around looking for Holmes, but he wasn't about to go back to Baker Street if there was a chance he was still in danger. Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long for a sign. As they passed down a side street, Watson heard a shout and when he glanced over, he saw Holmes loitering on the side of the street, waiting for them, his disguise gone, though his clothes were still rough.

"Thank you for finding me," he said once they were all comfortably seated in a cab. "I fear I underestimated the fine fellow you met just now. He mistook me for one of his own men, but he still didn't trust me. I haven't been let out of their sight since he first spotted me. If you hadn't come, I may have been forced to go with them out to sea."

"Do you have the evidence you were looking for?" asked Lestrade.

"Just about," Holmes said with his enigmatic smile. "But first, won't you join us for a belated lunch."


	26. On the Eve of War

**Today's Prompt: Holmes takes up boxing again (from Ennui Enigma).**

**Note: This ended up a little sadder than I anticipated, but I fear it was inevitable.**

* * *

"Boxing again? Really Holmes? I thought you were just in London for a meeting. And you are not as young as you once were."

"I am not as fit as I once was either, and I've gotten out of practice. That's why it's necessary."

Watson sighed and shook his head. "I don't like it."

"Nor do I, my dear fellow, but it seems our retirement may be sadly short lived."

Watson frowned, but he reached out for Holmes's bloodied and roughly bandaged hand all the same.

Holmes knelt down in front of Watson's chair by the fire as Watson gingerly took his hand and unwrapped the dirty cloth that passed for a bandage. His knuckles were just a little split, no real damage done unless they got infected from their poor wrappings.

With his other hand, Watson lifted Holmes's chin to examine his face in the lamplight. A dark purple bruise was beginning to bloom on his cheek, but that too was essentially harmless. He didn't doubt he would see more later that evening when they were no longer hidden under his clothes. But Holmes knew better than to conceal any broken bones.

Watson hastily went and retrieved his old medical kit from the other room. He dabbed Holmes's knuckles clean - he heard Holmes take in a sharp breath as the disinfectant touched the open wound - and rewrapped them in a clean white bandage, though they probably didn't really need it.

"What's the word from London?" he asked when he was done, though he did not relinquish Holmes's hand quite yet. "Will there really be war?"

It was Holmes's turn to sigh. "With the continent as it is, it's only a matter of time."

"England has always been a little apart from the continent," Watson attempted.

"Not this time. I'm afraid we're as tied up in treaties as the rest of them. I don't have all the details, mind you, but with aeroplanes at their disposal, the channel doesn't afford us much protection anymore."

"Do you think war will really come to our borders?"

"Probably not the worst of it."

"Then couldn't you stay in retirement? You done your duty to our nation and to all of Europe many times over."

"As have you," Holmes pointed out. "But could you allow a younger man to take your place on the front?"

"Never," Watson admitted. "Not if it comes to that."

"Then let us hope it does not. Mycroft has recommended me for counterintelligence. I will do what I can to keep Europe from the brink, but I fear I am much too late."

Watson squeezed Holmes's hand between his own because it was all he could do.

"Come now," Holmes continued more lightly. "We have a little longer. I believe we have time for a brisk walk along the beach before dinner, if you would condescend to accompany me.

"Certainly," Watson answered, his voice a little rough with emotion. He brushed the damp from his eyes before standing to follow Holmes out the door.


	27. A Trifling Matter

**Today's Prompt: Watson's been sworn to secrecy on a great many cases, but this, THIS has just got to come out: (from ThatSassyCaptain)**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is often correct when everyone else is left in the dark. When he is unable to find a solution, usually no one is. But on a rare occasion, my friend has been in the wrong when the official force was in the right. As he has often said, it is the simple, commonplace crimes that present the most difficulty. To preserve his professional reputation, he swore me to secrecy, but now that he has long since retired, I believe it is only fair to paint a more human picture of my friend, as it is only human to err.

It was about the middle of the morning, by that point, both of us were up and we're toward the end of our breakfast, when a nervous man burst into our flat. He was a middle-aged, portly fellow in a state of severe excitement.

Without giving Holmes a chance to speak or even pausing for introductions, he exclaimed, "You must help me, Mr. Holmes! You must! I just won't feel safe until he's been caught!"

"I only know that you have a clumsy maid, two grown sons and a recently deceased wife, and that you came into wealth through a successful business, as well as several smaller points. Pray be seated and when you are comfortable you can tell us your tale," said Holmes, languidly taking his place reclining in his seat by the fire.

I hastily joined him.

The man perched on the settee, still wringing his hands, and related his tale of woe; "It was the most dreadful thing! You're right, of course, Mr. Holmes. It's just me and the maid at home, and she is a little clumsy at times, but she's been good for all the years I've had her on. With just the two of us in the house, we're an easy pick for burglars. We had a break-in just the other night, I found the safe empty in the morning. Oh, Mr. Holmes! I don't know what to do! Some of my dear wife's jewels were taken among other things. It may not be much to another man, but it's a heavy hit to me, and I won't feel safe at home until I know he's been caught!"

When at last he was done, Holmes glanced over at me. "What do you say, Watson? Shall we take a look?"

We followed the man to his humble abode. The place was already overrun by police officers, gathering evidence. The senior-most of them met Holmes at the gate.

"Mr. Holmes, what are you doing here? I'm afraid it's an open and shut burglary; there's not much for you to do. We have a few witness accounts of the culprit and are looking for our man now."

"I wouldn't presume to get in your way. At your leave, my friend and I will just have a little look around."

"If you're certain," the officer reluctantly assented.

Holmes slowly wandered around the house. Then he went inside and evaluated the scene of the crime. As they passed through the dining room he let out a sudden exclamation and dropped to his knees, pulling out his magnifying glass. Clutched in his other hand was a shard of glass that he slipped into a small pouch for further examination.

"The case deepens," he remarked, before continuing on his way.

When it came time to question the witnesses, he first spoke with the maid.

"What did you serve for dinner last night?" he asked with the utmost interest.

She hesitated. "Just a stew, sir."

He shook his head in dismay. "And for dessert?"

"A trifle."

Holmes let out a barking laugh. "It is the trifles that are always most important, wouldn't you say, Watson?"

I couldn't fathom what he was getting at. "I suppose."

"It's suggestive, isn't it?"

"How so?"

He just shook his head.

When it was time to leave he remarked, "It appears simple, but there are some suggestive features. I will have to look into it further."

The officer in charge was as baffled as I, but neither of us dared argue with the expert.

"It is a deeper matter than I had thought," exclaimed Holmes as he strode into the flat. He did not lapse into his chair, but set about pacing across the sitting room in agitation. "For days I have searched and yet I have trouble making heads or tales of the matter."

"You are referring to the burglary?" I asked to be certain.

"What else? You may laugh, and Officer Jones too, but for each clue I have found, there arise more to contradict it. Each theory I form must be tossed aside in turn. There is something I'm missing, but I cannot begin to hypothesize what."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually," I attempted, but I was not sure what to say.

That earned me a wry smile. "You are right Watson, you have the makings for brilliance yet. There is no use in theorizing without facts. Hand me my violin and perhaps we can find a more pleasant way to while away a few hours."

In such a manner, a few hours passed, until our landlady arrived with a telegram in hand. Holmes leaped up and grabbed it out of her hand. It took but an instant for him to read it before he let out a sharp laugh and tossed it over to me.

The telegram read, "Wanted to let you know, burglary solved, culprit confessed, nothing out of ordinary."

"I fear I have been chasing after nothing," Holmes said, lapsing back into his chair with a self-deprecating smile. "If nothing else, this has been an important reminder that at times things are just coincidences. Watson, you must swear you will never publish this among my successes, or I fear your reading public will never forgive us."


	28. God Rest Ye Weary Gentlemen

**Today's Prompt: Let nothing you dismay! (from Book girl fan)**

**I admit this one wandered a little far from the prompt. The late night setting is inspired by the line before it ("God rest ye merry gentlemen"), and the tone was inspired by the prompt itself. This is intended as a bit of a follow-up to a semi-recent fic of mine, Violin in the Middle of the Night (which was coincidentally inspired by one of someone else's stories from last year's challenge).**

* * *

Watson tossed and turned in bed. At some point he had fallen into a restless sleep, but it could only hold him for so long. Now he lay awake, chased from sleep as though haunted. At last he threw off the blankets and hoisted himself out of bed. He lit a candle and padded down the stairs, into the sitting room, by its flickering glow. A dim orange light filtered in through the blinds from the street below. He could make out the silhouettes of the walls and furniture. In the darkness, the flat may as well not have changed at all in the three years it had been left uninhabited, or even since Watson had last lived there. There was an eerie chill to the empty room.

Suddenly he almost jumped as a door opened with a loud creak. He spun to face it and found Sherlock Holmes standing in his nightgown in the door of his bedroom, like a tall, pale ghost. Watson's heart pounded and he could feel himself shaking a little with the force of all of the emotions that the sight of the man in front of him evoked.

"Watson, are you quite alright?" Holmes asked urgently. "I didn't intend to startle you."

Watson gave a dazed nod. "I'm fine, Holmes. I didn't realize you were awake." Their voices echoed a little too loud in the quiet of the night.

"I've become accustomed to sleeping lightly," answered Holmes with a rueful smile across his wan features - a constant reminder of the hardships he must have faced in his time alone, of which he was so reluctant to speak.

Still, all Watson could do was stare, to take in every line of Holmes's face as though it could vanish in an instant like the flickering of a candle. For three long years, he had been forced to accept that the man standing before him was buried beneath the rush of the Reichenbach falls, that he would never see him again. And now…

"Watson," Holmes spoke again, his voice near a whisper, "Is there anything I can do to help?" He attempted to hold out a hand to Watson, but seemed to not know what to do with it, so it remained hovering in the space between them.

Finally, Watson shook his head. "Just a little trouble sleeping, that's all."

"This is certainly not a rare restless night." Watson could see Holmes examining him in the candlelight with those sharp eyes of his.

"No," Watson admitted under Holmes's indomitable scrutiny. "You know I am a light sleeper in the best of times."

"And we have both seen better days. But I believe there is still hope for us yet. What do you say, Watson?"

Watson could not swear to it - he could hardly believe his own eyes, let alone his perception - but he thought there was some softness to Holmes's gaze beyond the usual piercing intelligence, perhaps a glimmer of hope to mirror his own.

"Yes," Watson said at last, a little breathless, his heart fluttering in his chest, "If you'll have me."

"I am lost without my Boswell."

Finally, Watson took Holmes's proffered hand and let Holmes lead him to the settee where they remained side by side, chatting to wile away the late night hours.


	29. A Bluff

**Today's Prompt: a blackmailer is foiled (from mrspencil).**

* * *

"What do you make of this?" Holmes tossed a letter over to Inspector Lestrade as the inspector stepped into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

Lestrade had to read it through a few times before at last he concluded, "It's a bad business."

"Or a well-laid trap," Holmes put in with a wry smile. "I happen to know the identity of the man behind this inauspicious letter and have been waiting patiently upon my lure for some time now. At last, he has taken the bait."

"You play a dangerous game, Mr. Holmes, you and Dr. Watson both," said Lestrade, glancing between them.

Watson merely shrugged, a tacit acknowledgement that he too had been involved in the plan.

"I know of only two ways to foil a blackmailer, Inspector," Holmes said, with just a touch of condescension. "The first you have seen in the death of the infamous Charles Augustus Milverton; their dangerous work eventually catching up with them. The second is to turn to the officials, but in doing so the victim's secret is lost. Therefore, the only solution is to invent a scandal, as I have done here, to the marvelous result you see before you."

Lestrade looked less than impressed. "And what evidence have you given him?"

Holmes waved it off. "Nothing conclusive, of course."

"I'll do what I can to prevent a scandal, but I cannot guarantee your reputation. It was a reckless move, Mr. Holmes, even for you. I can only imagine what an overzealous prosecutor would make of it."

"If I had an alternative, we would take it, but as I have explained, our options are rather limited, and this seemed the most convincing trap."

"Well, I won't say we're not grateful to you and the doctor for sticking your necks out like this. Blackmail is a hard crime to prosecute, but if you can lead us to our man, I'm certain we'll have enough evidence to lock him away."

"Good man!" Holmes declared and eagerly set about detailing his plans.

* * *

Only when Lestrade retreated down the stairs and the door shut behind him, did Watson let out a shaky breath of relief. "Do you think it'll be alright?"

Holmes nodded. He sat leaning forward in his chair, his fingers tented in front of him, poised as though in deep concentration. "Lestrade is a good man, if a little lacking in imagination, and I believe both attributes work in our favor upon this occasion. Our blackmailer's evidence is not conclusive, if it was I would not have dared go through any official channel, but as it is I believe we will be safe for now." He let out a long sigh. "My apologies Watson, for putting you in such danger."

"We may do well to be a little more discreet," Watson admitted.

"For some time I have been thinking of retiring to the countryside. There at least we may have more privacy."

"Are you certain?"

"I find myself increasingly drawn to more intellectual pursuits. I fear I am becoming rather like brother Mycroft in my old age. But you need not retire. It may be better for us to move separately."

"I have thought of going back into practice."

"Your infinite capacity for service to your fellow man is remarkable. Now, there is nothing more we can do, so let us think of more pleasant things."


	30. A Dish Left Unserved

**Today's Prompt: Much debate has been sparked over Watson's reaction to Holmes' return to life. But the Doctor is a creative fellow, and could have his revenge served any way he liked (from ThatSassyCaptain).**

* * *

"After all I have done," Holmes remarked, "I would not blame you if you sought revenge. And you are a creative fellow; I am certain you could have your revenge served any way you liked."

Watson sighed and shook his head. "Nature has already exacted more revenge than I dare take. I know your hiatus was not the pleasant journey you described - I see it in your haggard face, how thin you have become, how you still glance over your shoulder as though you are being pursued."

"Very good, Watson. Excellent."

"Any communication would have been a danger to your life."

"Or to yours," Holmes added softly.

Their eyes met like opposite sides of a mirror, both reflecting uncertainty, but with a spark of hope. The fire crackled in the hearth, its warm light danced across their faces, chasing away the shadows.

At last, Holmes leaned forward in his chair, toward Watson. "Would you do me the honor of returning to Baker Street? I swear, I will not leave you again. I didn't realize my absence would affect you so."

"You forget, Holmes," Watson answered, "It was I who left you."

"You're right. And with reason. I have treated you most unfairly, and I will do whatever it takes to make amends."

Watson seemed to search Holmes's features, as though the sight of him alone could answer his doubts. Finally, he said, "No more cocaine or morphine. I've lost you once, I won't watch you slowly destroy yourself."

Holmes nodded. "Of course."

"It won't be easy."

"I know, but I'm in no position to argue." Holmes extended a hand toward Watson. "What do you say?"

At last, Watson took Holmes's hand.


	31. And a Happy New Year

**Today's Prompt: One New Year's Resolution has been kept all year (from Book girl fan).**

* * *

The distant ringing of all the bells in London echoed through the open windows. Holmes dutifully stepped over the threshold into their flat, bearing a few token gifts. Watson greeted him with an outstretched arm.

"I would not be so hasty in welcoming such an omen," said Holmes, as he allowed Watson to lead him back to his usual chair by the fire. "I may appear to you as a tall, dark haired gentleman, but you'll find that I am more often a stormy petrel. For all your fair features, I would much rather a solid fellow as yourself have the first foot through my door."

That earned him a chuckle, as Watson settled in his own chair. He picked up his glass and raised it toward Holmes - "To the new year and all it may bring!"

"Yes," Holmes said, clinking their glasses together. "I owe you my gratitude for this past year, and with your assistance I have high hopes for the next."

They both drank and sat for a moment in comfortable silence, as befits two men who know each other so intimately.

"Have you any resolutions for the new year or will you merely bask in your perfection?" Holmes asked with a wry smile.

"Oh, I don't know. Perhaps I'll try to learn some more of your methods."

"A most commendable pursuit!"

"And you?"

"The same as last year, of course." Holmes pulled up his shirtsleeves and presented his bare forearms to Watson. His pale skin was riddled with scars from countless punctures, but none were fresh. "An entire year clean."

"My dear fellow, I must congratulate you! I didn't realize it had been a whole year." Watson raised his glass. "A toast - to your health."

"And to yours," Holmes demurred, but his cheeks were flushed with pleasure.


End file.
